A/N: Hello again everyone! Hope you are all doing well; here is the chapter!
Chapter warning(s) for: explicit language, violence, gore (referenced/mentioned), war, mentions of torture, child abuse, child neglect, starvation, non graphic suicide attempt.
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Next Update on: 30th of July, Friday
Chapter Thirty Seven
...
"Your eye will no longer linger on the light, it will no longer trace constellations. You'll care only about the darkness and you'll watch it for hours, for days, maybe even for years, trying in vain to believe you're some kind of indispensable, universe-appointed sentinel, as if just by looking you could actually keep it all at bay."
― Mark Z
…
'You need to go to the rooftop again,' Sirius whispers.
It's the first thing he hears. Well, hearing is a bit overestimating his ability in the dead of night, after that nightmarish freak show.
So Sirius repeats himself again, and Harry barely hears him over the thundering in his ears, again. His whole body aches and throbs in time with his heart, but nothing seems broken. Nothing feels broken. He can move his legs, his spine feels alright, his head isn't moist with blood.
His eyes dart over to Draco and then quickly away again. He's asleep, which is rare, because lately, it feels like whenever Harry blinks his eyes open, Draco's eyes had been on him from ages before.
It's nice, seeing him rest. Even if only out of sheer exhaustion. Though, there is no questioning that sleeping under a literal bridge isn't the most comfortable of places.
'Harry-'
"No, shut up," his voice is barely audible, and he can't see much in the dark. It's the absence of his glasses, his hands quietly pat around the ground as he keeps on watching Draco.
Everything is cast behind a haze, for some reason. It feels more of a dream than his rooftop did. Harry fucking hopes that this isn't a dream. He can't handle it if it were.
Even after he puts on his glasses with trembling hands, Sirius is awfully blurred. Like a daydream. A heatwave of a ghost.
'You need to go back. You need to see what went wrong.'
"I don't need to figure out a dream."
What he does need to do, rather, is to avoid the rooftop for a while. Because Sirius is being insane, Harry can't go back there. Not when he, quite metaphorically, splattered his innards on the pavement without his own consent.
He's had weird dreams before. In one, he even committed cannibalism...of a sort. Although, to be fair, he was horribly impaired and out of sorts when having that dream. But he knew it wasn't real. He knew it even in the dream. Even when he was holding onto Cedric's beating heart.
'It wasn't a dream.' Sirius insists, and he sounds very far away. 'You felt pain. Actual physical pain, that wasn't a dream.'
'Maybe…" he swallows, vividly remembering the pain. It's fresh, like dirt under his fingernails. Fresh and annoying.
When he shifts, he moves gingerly, afraid of setting his nerves alight. They've been really sensitive recently. The fucking cold. "Maybe my body somehow stimulated the pain." He certainly had enough experience to draw upon.
"It was a dream," he says, louder, "It was. It has to be."
Sirius scoffs, 'Stimulated a fucking bust in your head? A broken spine?' he shakes his head, and Harry can see hints of his own hysteria bleeding into the man's persona, 'You need to check on the rooftop, you have to see what's wrong.' his eyes bear into Harry's, they're pleading, 'Draco won't even notice, you can be quick about it.'
Sometimes it's hard to forget that Sirius isn't a real person. That it's Harry himself, arguing with himself, especially at times when all Harry seeks is the comfort of another, older, wiser person, and instead meets resistance.
'This isn't about him. I can do whatever I want,' and what he wants is to go to the familiar comfort of his rooftop, and Sirius knows this. But Harry also knows that the rooftop isn't his anymore. Not right now. He doesn't want to go there only to see the same, bleak, sunless sky. His safe haven is ruined. He doesn't want to jump.
It's as if piece by piece, chunks of his brain fall out, one after another. The world collapses, and the ground gives away, and nothing feels sane and...
Only Draco remains.
'Everything is about him.'
Harry grits his teeth, "What am I doing? Talking to myself when he's…" He juts out his chin at Sirius, who's looking at him with a strange expression on his face. Knowingly, pityingly. "You're not real. I don't know why I forget that sometimes."
Sirius opens his mouth to answer, but he's cut off with a smaller, scared voice.
"Harry?" Draco is looking at him, the sudden panic in his eyes slowly leaves once he catches sight of him. Harry moves closer to him and Draco grabs his hand.
"I'm here," he whispers. For now, at least.
Harry has no idea what's happening.
Xenophilius knows they're about to enter his wards about five minutes before they're even in the vicinity, the Wrackspurts told him just as he was sculpting his latest piece 'Harry Potter's hidden affair with time'.
Wrackspurts don't usually carry messages, in fact, their main function is to confuse the person they bewitch, but with Xeno, it's different. They are old friends.
Luna has yet to figure out the lem of charming Wrackspurts, but he will not push and force her into it. Befriending wild spirits is a skill she needs to learn in her own time.
He stashes his article in the nearest drawer, and pads downstairs to fill the kettle. He has no idea whether there is any tea left, but hot water on itself is also a beneficial beverage.
A small army of Moon frogs hop after him, and one is sitting on the sugar tin, impassively holding Xeno's gaze.
"I know what they're coming here for," he tells the frog, as he digs around for the teacups and cutlery set Pandora kept for special guests. He doesn't use those much, as is indicated by the thin coat of dust settled on the set that he has to wipe off with a rag.
The frog blinks back and Xeno huffs. "Knowing doesn't mean I'll give in, of course not. Stop being ridiculous, Trevor."
He will not risk Luna's safety under any circumstances. She needs him now more than ever, and he's the only one she has left. Luna needs a paternal figure in her life.
Xeno owes her and Pandora that much.
They knock on his door just as he's finished scouring the saucers and shooing off the berry fairies out of the window.
Xeno looks down at his messy robes and just shrugs. He opens the door to three figures, all fidgeting and giving him an awkward nod in greeting while he steps away.
"It's been a while, Xenophilius," Arthur, the only one he's personally familiar with starts, the other man, dark-skinned, tall and looming, he hasn't seen once in his life, and the other gangly young man is undoubtedly another Weasley.
He can't remember the boy's name for the life of him. Not that he particularly cares. "It has been a while," he agrees and gestures at the couch.
The trio plops down on the worn cushions. They look absolutely exhausted, though it doesn't seem as if the journey to his house has been the cause of their vex.
Xenophilius regards them in the middle of his sitting-room as seconds of silence pass like droplets of water rushing out of a faulty faucet.
"Aren't you going to make sure we're not imposters?" The young Weasley inquires but Xeno is already whirling to trot back to his kitchen by the time he's done looking at them.
"The Wrackspurts told me who you are."
He doesn't tell them that he has over a dozen curses strategically placed in the living room, triggered to disillusionment charms.
Also, the Nargles hiding behind the flower jars are extremely sensitive to glamour charms. The aura is harmful to them, so they wouldn't be keeping quiet for sure if there was something wrong with these three.
Xenophilius aligns the cups and looks around for his dried lavender leaves to give the water some flavor in the absence of actual tea.
Lavender is his favorite, pleasant smell, calming effect. He drank nearly a gallon a day after Pandora's passing. It was the only thing getting him through Luna's non-stop crying.
"How are things then?" Arthur bellows from the living room, as Xeno balances the cups on a tray.
"How do you expect them to be, Arthur? In absolute chaos."
Arthur gives him a wince, and then leans over the couch to gesture at his companions, "This is Kingsley," the tall man nods at him, "and my son."
He holds out the tray, as each man hesitantly reaches for their cup. The young man, looking well into his early adulthood, gives his cup a hesitant sniff and then gently places it on the edge of the coffee table.
Xeno stares down at his long, nimble fingers while he's still waiting for the other two, when it clicks.
"You're the kidnapped one," he proclaims with a grin, both the boy and Arthur jostle in place. "The one who got a jullu stuck in his throat." He marches back to his own armchair, "You know I told your father time and time again, 'just give the boy some essence of dried pixie wings to coax out the Jullu,', but I don't think Arthur saw that necessary."
Arthur squirms in his seat, nervously sipping at his lavender soother whilst the young man looks mildly disturbed. The third man, Kingsley, Xenophilius notices, plainly looks lost.
"Yeah well, he spoke up… a while after that," Arthur says slowly, he stretches his hands and then leans back in his seat.
Xeno doesn't let the man's uncomfortable aura affect the truth. He seldom gets the chance to tell people they're wrong to their face and get taken seriously.
"Well, you could have sped it up a bit," he says and gulps down his soother like a sailor lost at sea, then he turns to the lad, "How long did you go mute for, lad? Six months was it? I remember you being quite a lot."
The boy shrugs, "Can't really remember."
Just as well, Xenophilius much rather any child that had anything to do with Valentina Parkinson and then plagued with a severe case of Jullus to have blacked out as much as possible.
Kingsley the stranger clears his throat, "We are here on Order business, Mr. Lovegood."
Xeno knows. He's not a moron, contrary to the popular and prevailing belief. He flicks his eyebrow upward, then tips his empty cup to float off to the coffee table.
"I am listening."
He's going to turn it down. No matter what.
He can't leave Luna. Not with the attacks. He can't leave her, he has an article to edit. He has mouths to feed here.
Arthur and Kingsley exchange looks, "There are rumors, Xenophilius. About a possible siege."
"Another one?" So soon after the other attacks? Unconsciously, his hand reaches and he swipes his empty cup for a swig. Arthur nods.
"This time the Ministry's infrastructure. It is said to be… a complete takeover."
Xeno doesn't let a shed of emotion creep up his face. His response is already planned. Whatever this is, he will decline. "That sounds tragic indeed."
He might have to pull Luna out of school, for her own safety. Perhaps take her on that trip to see higgledies up close.
"It is. And sir…" William- that's his name, he realizes with a jolt- leans forward, "We don't have the numbers to stop it."
Thinking that they did have the assets to stop an imminent attack of that magnitude is absurd, Xenophilius might not be in the game much recently, but even then their numbers were staggeringly meager. Much less now, that You-Know-Who has had ten years of reprieve.
"Of course you don't," he clicks his tongue at William, "His members easily outnumber yours twice."
The recent attack is still at the forefront of his mind; the casualties, all those children...it was massive. Xenophilius knows that others will be appalled by how inwardly impressed he was by the strategy behind the attack. The perfect illusion, with intricate layers, pawns and the least amount of trickery. It was bloodshed, for the sake of bloodshed. Only to those who were blind, of course.
Kingsley clears his throat several times, and hastily settles his cup down, "There is sensitive information in the Ministry that needs to be protected," his voice is much deeper than Xeno was expecting, "the information we can not export out of the building."
Of course, moving a single hair out of a targeted place that is most likely being watched twenty-four seven is impossible.
Xeno hums, "Seems as if your work is cut out for you."
"Xenophilius-"
He slams his cup down on the table, and Arthur rears back in surprise.
He holds the man's gaze, and notices how he's gotten so much older. Of course, he has, they all have. It's been more than fourteen years since their last reunion.
"You know my answer already," he tells his old friend, brushing off vague vignettes and images of the times they've spent together; on missions, in the headquarters, in Alice and Frank's wedding they shared a table, with Molly Weasley pregnant and a much younger Arthur bouncing a crying baby on his hip. Old, distant memories.
Pandora was alive back then, her skin glowing almost translucent under the fairy lights, chuckling as she conversed with Molly about babies.
Two months before they found out they were having a baby of their own.
"We need you."
"I refuse to grace you with it anyways." Xeno finishes and bats a hand. The urge to let the Wrackspurts glaze over his eyes so that his guests give up and leave is a constant struggle.
Arthur scoffs, "You know why we need you, you are a master illusionist, he will never be able to-"
Xeno cuts him off, "I was an illusionist, and you-know-who has more than a dozen ways to, in fact, break into my illusions, Arthur. They're not infallible."
They speak of the man's name as if he isn't a dark lord. As if he isn't capable of wrecking every magical deceit in his way given time. Dark lords, as Arthur should logically know, aren't just normal wizards with a nickname. They have power to their names. And Xenophilius hasn't done this in a very long time. "He will know. Illusions can be weeded out."
"I know, I know," Arthur clasps his son's shoulder, "but Bill here is good at key-wards. You know, a ward-locking partner will help tremendously. He can delay you-know-who for months, maybe a year."
Something twists in Xenophilius' chest, and he can see from the corner of his eyes, the Nargles twitching with his discomfort. He hasn't worked with a ward-locking partner for over a decade. The last person he's worked with is currently locked up in the mental ward in St. Mungo's with her husband.
He swallows thickly, regards young William, and tries his hardest not to see Alice Longbottom in his place. It's easy since Alice had a small stature, even smaller than Pandora, short-cropped hair, small hands, delicate but never fragile. Witty, talented. Now insane.
"I do not work with every random ward-locker that comes about, Arthur." He says with as much composure as he can manage.
Their magic needs to be compatible, the illusions need to blend in with the wards, just as a specific key fits inside a lock. Just like the way his and Alice's masterpieces worked. They need to click.
"That's actually the best part…"
William smiled hesitantly, "I can adjust my wards to fit most signatures. It's one of the reasons why I was recruited by Gringotts."
Well, Xenophilius has to admit that is impressive, but it still doesn't justify Xeno accepting a death mission. A very painful one, if anything. He's not twenty anymore. He's a single father, the head of a publishing house. He can't just...he can't.
"I am not an Order member for a reason."
Arthur nods, but then opens his mouth to continue, "I understand your concerns..."
"Do you?"
The man gives him a look, "I have seven children."
Xeno rolls his eyes, "And Luna has one parent. Arthur…" he blinks away Alice's face, smiling at him from across the room, not having aged a day, "we're not young anymore. I can't… you know I can't."
Kingsley opens his mouth before Arthur can reply, "If he gets his hands on this information-"
Xeno groans.
A hard-won groan from the pit of his guts, because his social spark is dying quickly, and he can't even conjure enough words to dismiss the men, "What makes you think he doesn't have it already?" He snaps, unusual for him, enough that he startles even himself, "He infiltrated the ministry less than a month ago. He had five people under Imperius carrying out orders for sabotage… I don't know if you see what I see right now, strange man."
Arthur looks exhausted, "The war is not done, yet."
There is profound hope, when it comes to discussing such things, and there is also a grain of idiocy. The odds don't seem likely at all. Now Xenophilius doesn't know whether his friend is stupidly sanguine or has a reason for this unfounded optimism.
"He seems pretty ahead to me," he says, "I can't endanger my position right now, I'm already a half-blood, my daughter and I are a viability, to begin with," he says those words with the knowledge that had Pandora been alive, she would have clubbed him in the head for them.
William shifts and finally takes a gulp of his cup, "That's why you need to do all you can to prevent his victory."
Xeno turns to Arthur, "You were there when he made that speech, you and that other son of yours, the one with the glasses. You heard and probably remember every word."
Arthur's shoulders slowly sink, "That is true."
"You are afraid," the third man declares and Xeno looks him right in the eye.
It doesn't take a genius to guess an expression so deeply felt in his guts, to be evident on his face. Xenophilius closes his eyes with an emotion keen to frustration.
"Yes. I am afraid, very much so. My daughter is miles away, out of my reach and protection, the deaths are getting nearer every day; muggles, half-bloods. Just missing or found tortured," he chuckles in disbelief, "They found Lucius Malfoy's rotten corpse just tossed away… I can't get sucked back into that mess."
He can't bear seeing the people he cares about, the people he works with, dead or insane or maimed again. Especially whilst losing an uphill battle.
"But you already are in it."
"I'm not going out of my way to defy him," he gets up to gather the cups, "You don't scratch at a lion because you're itchy. I was in the first war, I saw how it ended."
Pandora's favorite cups clink and rattle against each other in his hands, and it occurs to him that it's because his hands are shaking.
Arthur surges to his feet after him, "But it ended."
He follows Xeno into the kitchen, hot on his tail as Xenophilius dumps the cups over the counter, frightening Trevor off the sugar tin.
It ended. But it never did, did it? Xenophilius has not felt As if the war ended more than fourteen years ago.
"Did it ever end for Lily and James Potter?" He asks, "Did it end for Frank and Alice? It's not the question of the greater good for me, Arthur. It's the health of me and my daughter."
"Pandora would never have-"
He whirls to face the man, "Don't speak her name in vain. Just don't."
They spend tense seconds, looking at each other. Arthur steps closer, ducks his head and Xenophilius can feel man's breath on his face.
"If the information in the Ministry is compromised," Arthur whispers furiously, "his victory is guaranteed. This is not common knowledge, Xen."
Xenophilius darts out a hand on the counter to steady himself, "If it's highly classified then why are you telling me?" He asks.
Arthur sighs, "Because I need you to understand the gravity of our situation," he squeezes his shoulder, "There is a prophecy, regarding him and… Harry Potter. It is said to be... It's our only shot."
Prophecies are sacred things, Xenophilius knows and fully believes in the power they hold, he is also aware that true prophecies are not easy to come by. The likelihood of a prophecy concerning the Boy Who Lived and Voldemort actually being accurate is unlikely.
But never zero.
"Xeno…"
"Surely you can't expect a child to..."
The hand on his shoulder tightens, "He's the chosen one, Xenophilius." Arthur looks him right in the eyes, his tone riddled with conviction.
Those were dangerous words to just throw around. Arthur knew that Xenophilius knew that.
They had a so-called savior and no one to show for it. It's somewhat pathetic, when one thinks of it that way, nearly a dozen adults idolizing a child and wishing that he ended a decade-long war. But then again, if the prophecy rang true, then age really didn't play into the sequence of events.
This is a matter of trust now.
"Where is he now?" He swallows again, tries to stop the flood of thoughts that flash before his eyes, "Last I heard of him, he was missing. Have you found him?" Because what was the point of preserving a prophecy when the main object of it was missing in action.
Arthur doesn't look as if he was expecting Xenophilius to ask such a question. His expression changes from urgency to a crestfallen look that immediately makes Xen's heart sink.
"Yes. Well...no," the man rubs a hand over his face, "No," he sounds choked, "he... he's gone again. We're trying to track him but..."
"Was he taken?"
Arthur huffs, scrubs at his damp eyes again, "Do you remember Rosier senior?" He says but doesn't wait for a reply, "We found his son's body, mutilated, the place reeked of Harry's magic, but other than that…" and then he drifts off.
Trevor ribbits in the background.
"You are in deep shit, Arthur."
Arthur chuckles, it's a breathless bitter thing, "I know. I know, Xen...this is why we need you. If he gets his hands on that prophecy before we find Harry…"
"An illusion of that magnitude… It's-"
The man cuts him off, "Not impossible for you. I've seen your work firsthand, Xenophilius. You have fooled him before."
He had. Once upon a time, before Pandora's pregnancy, and Luna and Alice being tortured into insanity. It was their most impressive accomplishment, at the time. Alice had jokingly called it their 'illusion baby'.
It seems as if the field takes place before his eyes in the cramped kitchen, the cloudy sky, the runes hidden under the grass, the whipping wind, and a dozen hidden order members, camouflaged in a place that did not have a shred of sincerity.
Xenophilius blinks his eyes back to Arthur again, "You want me to cover an entire section for months, up to a year… That's too intricate. I have to… Literally, weave every strand individually, carve the runes, even create new ones. That will take too long. How long do you have? A month?"
The field had taken them two.
"Six weeks."
Xen feels his eyebrows traveling above his hairline, "Without alerting a single person within the Ministry itself."
"I can cover for you. I'm an Auror," comes from the stranger, Kingsley, standing by the door frame, William craning his neck over the man's shoulder.
Xenophilius breathes again. It's tempting. Too tempting. But Luna needs to be safe. But then again, there is a prophecy involved.
"How extensive are you talking?"
His guests exchange a look.
"The department of mysteries."
"An entire department?!"
William shuffles past Kingsley into the kitchen, "Just until we can get the Unspeakables to join our cause."
An entire department, without a single witness, and only in six weeks. Not even in his hardest moments, has Xenophilius been challenged to pulling off such a feat. His work banned any shred of haste, it had to be done carefully, handled delicately. One wrong rune would ruin an entire illusionist's layer. One wrong ward would tick off a sequence of events that might cause the spells to self-destruct.
This was too complex. Too difficult. Too extensive.
Xenophilius hasn't done this in such a long time.
"This sounds like utter madness," he says, and hates how faint his voice might sound to the others. He briefly thinks about taking Luna and making a run for it, but then dismisses the thought.
There's a prophecy.
Arthur gives him a smile, "The man I know craves madness. You're rotting away here, admit it," he clasps both of Xen's shoulders, "You need the challenge."
He nods, slowly, "I need my daughter… to be well."
William takes over his father, "The order can protect her, you know that. Much better than you could by yourself," his tone is not particularly insulting, just factual.
They're not wrong. Xenophilius wants them to be, but they're not. As few as their numbers might be, they can do a much better job at protecting his daughter than he can by himself.
"I need…" time? No, he doesn't. He has already decided, "fine. Fine, but consider it a one-time thing, Arthur. Just this once."
He looks at Trevor. Just once, he vows.
Kingsley smiles at him, "Of course."
When they come to a rest, it's almost sunset, Harry is sitting on the ground, his back leaning against the bark of a birch tree and Draco is shuffling through their bag. Quite uselessly, he already knows what's in there. No food.
His stomach might just compel him to eat grass at this point out of hunger. Harry, though, has not mentioned being hungry once during their trip today, he just made them drink a lot during the day and Draco is kind of glad that something is filling his stomach at least.
Even if he has to pee every two hours.
They're close to Mitcham now, so close that Draco can, in fact, see the welcome sign about fifty yards away. They need to sort out their plan before entering the small town. Draco really thought they would make it further today, but his legs honestly can't take it anymore.
He looks at Harry, lazily basking in narrow beams of sunset's light brutally shining through the canopy of leaves above them, and he can breathe a bit more easily.
He looks so beautiful.
Not the kind that is pretty, not the kind that Astoria, or even Theo is. He's not graceful, and he's not been raised to act like a royal, he doesn't look flawless.
He looks so flawed that he looks perfect.
He's nothing like Astoria, whom he snogged when he was fourteen in three broomsticks' shack on a whim, a caprice that led to Draco's first-ever sexual encounter.
And he's nothing like Theo, whom he snogged about a month before his mother was killed, in his room, in the dark of the night, stifling his groans. Harry is not quick, and demanding and bold like Theo.
No. He's smart, and he's passionate, but also calm and quiet. Like a storm in a teacup.
He doesn't hold himself like a pureblood, but he holds himself and Draco nonetheless.
Harry finally notices his ogling and raises his eyebrows with a sly smile.
"Hey you," he says, and adjusts himself, his knees are loosely drawn to his chest, and his wand is twirling in his hands. Subtly shaking.
Draco abandons the bag with a smirk of his own, "Hey yourself."
"Anything in the bag?"
"Nope, but hey look," he says once his eyes wander to the flowers, pointing to Harry's side, "Herb of grace."
Harry startles, then follows his finger, "The what?" He looks down at the tiny yellow patch of flowers by his left arm.
"Herb of grace." Draco shuffles to Harry, leans his arm on Harry's knees as he stretches to examine the herbs. "Yes. It's common rue."
"Oh, rue. I know those."
"It's a type of rue. This is Severus' favorite herb."
After lilies, that is. Draco would have been amused by it, but it's honestly not unusual for his godfather's house to smell like a particular flower for weeks to no end. Draco used to get sick of it pretty quickly. He misses it now.
'It would dispel the potion fumes, you know,' Severus said that all the time, but Draco found it to be more of an excuse. The man just loved smelling good. Years of bullying, is what Draco always personally assumed, since potion fumes don't always smell like daisies and lavenders.
Harry grabs his arm, the one on his knees, "Wait, for real?"
Draco smiles up at him, "Yeah. It actually has no function. It just smells nice."
Harry's hand ghosts on his, before he sneaks and plucks a few rues. He's holding Draco's gaze the entire time. Something playful flickers in his eyes, he drops his knees and Draco grabs the tree behind them for support.
"What are you doing?" Draco slowly says with a smile, he's acutely aware that he's between Harry's knees, and his chest has the ability to absolutely touch Harry's if he just kept leaning in.
Harry grins at him, "Just saving a few for the road,"
"Oh God, don't," Draco leans closer.
"Why not?" Harry tilts his head, exposing his neck. Draco's favorite spot.
Draco's lips inch closer and closer to Harry's skin. He smells like the chocolate bar they had earlier that day, and muggle laundry detergent, "Don't make me think of Severus when we're like this. You already did the brother thing," he mutters.
Harry's eyes trail down to his lips, "When we're like what?" He mutters back.
"When I want to do this-" he kisses Harry softly, draws back, then kisses him again, "and this."
Harry gently kisses him back, he drops his wand and the flowers, "and this," Draco kisses the side of his jaw and Harry's breath catches.
"Oh yeah?" He breaths.
Draco chuckles against his skin, "Precisely so."
Harry kisses him again, this time more roughly and demandingly. He grabs Draco by the collar and pulls him forward. Their bodies are almost flush together. His arms circle around Draco's neck.
"I can lose the flowers for this," Harry breathes.
"Good."
And Draco kisses the one spot he's always wanted to kiss. The warmest spot on Harry's body, the crook of his neck, directly over his pulse.
Harry, not expecting the kiss, gasps and slightly jolts, his fingers are locked around Draco's neck.
It feels wonderful, and it's not as if it's anything Draco has not experienced, and it's not as if they're doing anything. It's amazing in its casualness. And he wonders if it's this good and wonderful and everything while they're doing just kissing, then what would it feel like when he actually tried doing something, when they're not about to die, when they're not on the run, when they are safe and sound and he could just rest his eyes and then see Harry again clearly staring back at him, just staring the way he does. Draco misses that, it's been like two days but he misses that staring.
Draco hums, "You smell wonderful without them."
Harry snorts, "Yeah, as if."
"You just know how to keep a romantic moment alive, don't you?"
"Something like that." Harry's fingers gently tug at his hair, "Are you romancing me?"
Draco loves it. He doesn't even care that his hair is getting all disheveled and messy like Harry's. "For the past two months, thank you for noticing."
"I think you would be glad to know, that you're my first."
Draco is very glad to hear that.
"First kiss?"
Harry flushes and looks away, "First everything."
"I'm exploring exotic grounds then."
"You prick," Harry laughs. It's been way too long since he did that. He wants to hear it on a loop, "What about you? Am I your first?"
"Oh," Draco says, grinning, "You don't want to know."
Harry gives a mock scandalous gasp, widening his eyes and covering his mouth with his hand, "That many?"
Draco rolls his eyes, "Two. It was just snogging," and none as good as you. Would that be too much?
"Just like us now?"
Ah well, Harry asked. "Nowhere as sexy as us right now."
"You are incorrigible," the sound of Harry's laugh makes him feel better than any pain reliever ever could. That loony smile is still plastered on his face as he says, "You love it."
"Yeah, yeah."
Some part of him is disgusted by this lovely dovey display of emotions. The other side of him is just elated that he can freely do whatever he wishes now, without having to worry about his image, or place, or family. Or worry about Harry's reaction.
The sunset looks pretty and they're fine for just a moment.
They don't even go inside Mitcham. There's a bus stop at the edge of the town, and Draco and Harry both audibly sigh as they approach it with weary steps.
The bus stop is a lot more elaborate than the last one, it has an actual curved roof and the chairs aren't broken or missing. This one doesn't have a map.
Musing about buses momentarily reminds Draco of the Knight Bus, and he thinks about summoning it, it's a fleeting thought, just an impression of a coherent thought really, but he dismisses it right away.
It's not safe. Especially not safe for Harry.
If it were just Draco himself? He probably would have risked it, he would have taken his chances with an infiltrated magical bus than using these uncomfortable plastic chairs as a resting place. But it's not just him. They're in no shape to defend themselves. Besides, Harry can't be seen by anyone like this; there's a whole war going on around them, with them right in the eye of the storm and unaware of the chaos.
Draco is very much aware of the possible chaos as Harry leans his head against his shoulder with another sigh of relief.
He knows how muggles are treated by death eaters. He's seen and heard it happening in his own home, even though back then, he was all too happy to feign ignorance and move on with his life.
He ignored suffering. He ignored screams and cries for help. And the night he screamed, and thrashed and cried for help, he was ignored. Just like them.
He was vain, he was besotted with himself, and the universe sent in Fenrir Greyback for a reality check.
He wants so desperately to protect Harry now, and just like the other two instances, he wants it so for selfish reasons and he shudders to think what would become of it.
Their world is a wreck right now, and the last thing it needs is Harry and Draco back in it. It might be a bit selfish, but Draco doesn't care. As long as Harry is away from it all.
"Are you hungry?" Harry mumbles, his eyes are closed and his face is tense. Draco hums. His stomach imitates a whale's mating call just on cue, and he sighs.
"Yeah. You?"
"Not that badly.'" With closed eyes, Harry reaches for the half-full water bottle in their bag.
"I think I'm going to burst if I drink any more-"
Harry pushes the bottle in his hand anyways, eyes still closed, "Water fills up your stomach, it takes up space, makes you less hungry. Trust me."
Draco hates guessing why Harry would know that, of all people, but he has to ask anyway. He has an inkling of what would compel Harry to drink water to stave off starvation. But he needs Harry to say it.
Not sure for whose sake.
He tilts the bottle, "How do you know this?"
Harry hums, "Let's just say, I hope we don't go hungry for more than four days. Two days is easy, three days is tolerable," he groans, "but you definitely don't want four."
Draco feels the water going down his throat turn into tar. The image is right before his eyes, in the empty, deathly silent road; Harry as a child, locked up in his room for days, hungry and alone. With those deplorable muggles.
"They starved you, didn't they?"
Harry's eyes blink open to the road. Staring ahead. Draco, looking down at him, has the impression that they both see something different.
"They didn't ask to be burdened with a child." His voice is soft in the evening, even crickets choose silence.
"Harry…"
"Draco, you need to stop bringing this up," Harry mumbles into Draco's jumper, his face buried in the wool, his hair tickling Draco's chin.
"Why?"
"Because it makes me sad. It doesn't matter, they're dead. They're gone."
Draco's chest feels too tight, and the air around them suddenly feels too stifling in its darkness. It's like the night wants to strangle him.
"They hurt you."
"So have others." That doesn't make it any better. "I can adapt." Harry kisses Draco's jumper then shifts his head again. "We'll be fine. I promise."
Adapt. That's what he does, adapt to the pain, and misery, to torture. Draco feels sick. His arm tightens around Harry even though his shoulder burns.
He kisses Harry's head, just because he can, and then lets his chin drop there, his nose buried in Harry's hair. It comforts him beyond measure, in a way, it's the only reason Draco doesn't contemplate reviving those muggles back to life just to kill them again with his bare hands.
"Sleep tonight, okay?"
"I will," he lies.
A lie that morphs into a warped truth nearly three hours later.
His eyelids are begging to close, his body is beyond fatigued, and the darkness around him is too alluring, the cars that pass with blurring speed are far and few in between. Harry is motionless in his arms.
Draco loses track of time, of himself. He stares down at Harry and thinks 'maybe it won't happen. It didn't last night. Maybe it won't happen.'
The mantra soon turns into mumbled words in his head, and then into simple humming. Draco's hand slips off Harry's body and his head lolls away.
His mind is absolutely drenched in silence, and peace and blackness.
He's asleep in seconds.
There's bliss. Quiet and bliss and the rest his body needs. Then the ground gives away under Draco with a blaring horn after what only feels like a second and he jolts up with his heart thundering in his throat.
His eyes snap open, and Harry is gone and the blaring is getting closer and closer. Two vicious lights advance closer to Harry.
Harry's on the road.
Draco doesn't know how he runs, one second he's stunned on the plastic seat and the next the fucking blaring is deafeningly near his left ear as his body crashes into Harry's.
They both hit the ground as the truck speeds away, still honking, Draco's shoulder hits the pavement and everything is blindly white.
Oh, Merlin.
He lies on top of Harry, in pain and writhing in shock and contempt. It happened again. It did and Draco was asleep.
Draco almost let Harry get run over by a muggle.
He rolls away and checks Harry for any possible injuries, nothing's that bleeding, but the grazes on his face from the fall are too obvious.
He might ask about them. But then again…
Draco half-carries, half-helps an unconscious Harry back to the plastic seats, they collapse in a heap, and he holds on tight. He absolutely refuses to cry.
The truck never stopped. It didn't even slow down. There's no one else on the streets.
His fault. This is his fault.
That's the only thing, bold and blaring, at the front of his head as Harry's struggles slowly die down and he goes limp in Draco's arms. He doesn't know what it must have looked like from the outside were anyone watching.
A demented soul, begging to break free. And an idiot, holding on with all his might.
This is Draco's fault.
Despite the burning in his eyes, he doesn't sleep a wink the rest of the night, holding Harry a little too tight and flinching every time a vehicle passes them by.
Draco will not be screwed by the universe again. He refuses.
Refuse, he fucking begs himself.
Refuse.