A/N: Chapter warnings for; explicit language, mentions of self harm, mentions of child abuse, blood, violence, the usual.
Thanks a bunch to our Beta! We hope you guys enjoy this chapter!
Next Update: Friday, August the 27th
Chapter Thirty Nine
...
"You're in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won't tell you that he loves you, but he loves you. And you feel like you've done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you're tired. You're in a car with a beautiful boy, and you're trying not to tell him that you love him, and you're trying to choke down the feeling, and you're trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you've discovered something you didn't even have a name for."
― Richard Siken
…
This is not a dream.
Harry knows so, even though he also knows that this should be logically a creation of his own mind. He remembers going to sleep in Draco's arms in the station, he remembers his heavy eyelids finally falling close, and his aching body fading into the background.
He doesn't remember being here.
He extends a hand and lays his palm flat against the mirror, his back is also flush to the mirror behind him.
That's all there is. Him and the mirrors, extending to an infinity from either side of him.
It's a hall of mirrors, and it's so narrow that the most he can do is just extend one hand.
He's never felt so claustrophobic, not even in his cupboard.
Harry pushes himself off the mirror wall, and looks down, and it's the fucking mirrors again. He's walking on it. He's leaning on it. That's all there is.
He's already sick of seeing himself.
He starts walking, very precariously in one direction, Rosier's boots on his feet make no sound upon impact with the mirror's surface. It's eerie, but somewhat comforting.
Harry holds onto the walls as he walks, and after a while he hears whispering. Unintelligible, hissing sounds that he can't decipher, can't even tell the direction of. It's as if he's standing in the middle of a crowd, but doesn't speak their language.
His scar prickles, and his damp hands slip off the walls and Harry's heart clenches.
He needs to wake up, and he needs to get out of here.
"You're Harry James Potter," he breathes, "And this is just a dream. This has to be a dream,"
He looks at his hands, and in the dim, grey light sees that they shine black.
That's blood. He realizes it almost an instant before he looks into the mirror again. The reflection is not him, it's a memory.
In the memory, he's lying flat against the grass, his small body shivering under the lashing rain. The cut on his head keeps bleeding in rushing rivulets under the droplets.
Harry remembers that night. He remembers how he'd slipped off his stool whilst making dinner, hitting his head to the sharp corner of the counter, he remembers Petunia's livid face as she'd dragged him by the arm, out of the kitchen, through the hallway, past his cupboard, to the door.
He remembers how his breath had caught in his chest like a caged bird. How his body had trembled and his heart skipped a beat and his head had gushed out blood.
"You filth," she'd hissed down at him, cringing at the way blood dripped all over her steamed carpet. The one Harry had cleaned that very day.
Harry had cried because of course, he would've. He was small, a child, he was scared, and his head hurt so much.
It felt like dying.
The door had been wrenched open with a harsh click and he was tossed outside.
"Don't come back until the bleeding stops!" She'd screamed at him, shoving him off the porch, and glaring at him with narrowed, hawk-like eyes while Harry shook under the lashing rain. Holding himself together by the middle, too scared to touch his head. Too cold under the rain.
He's in the backyard, in the mirror, curled into himself and crying as quietly as he can in the storm because he knows that if Aunt Petunia hears him crying, making a fuss, attracting attention… she might never let him back in.
Harry touches his damp face, his eyes never waver from his own tiny body, and he tries to walk toward that wavering image, but it seems as if the more he walks, the further away it gets.
The hissing and the cursing are back again, and Harry feels thick rivulets, warm and sluggish making their way down his forehead.
He's shivering, he's soaked, and he can't stop walking. All he sees is himself, in the mirrors, and the ceiling and the floor. Small, pathetic and shivering, trailing grotesque droplets of blood that drip down his chin in tandem with his wheezing.
He wants to cry.
But he doesn't know if he's alone. If Petunia hears, if she does, then she might not let him back inside, and Harry will be left, in the hall of mirrors, with nothing but himself.
"Hey," Draco smiles down at him.
"I feel like it's September first, with all these—" is the first thing he hears once Harry is jolted out of his bizarre dream. He ignores Draco and raises his head from the boy's lap, rubbing a hand over his clammy face.
"Hey."
"It's okay," Harry mutters, "Just a nightmare."
It wasn't a nightmare. It wasn't a dream. Harry was there, in a hall of mirrors, and back to the Dursleys, and he was bleeding.
'This is getting scary, kiddo,' Sirius says from his right. He looks weird, ragged and fatigued. Sort of exactly how Harry is feeling at the moment.
He stands, then fidgets in place for a second before turning to Draco, also standing and staring at him. "When is our train due?"
Draco hums, and then frowns, "Um… should be fifteen more minutes? I wanted to wake you but…"
Harry turns and starts walking.
'This is the second time it's happened. There's something wrong, Harry,' Sirius says, and Harry resists the urge to turn towards him and let out the barrage of terror in a single scream.
I know, he wants to yell. I fucking know.
But he's in a train station, and moreover, he doesn't want to freak out his confused boyfriend.
Draco already doesn't look like his best, and Harry doesn't want to worry him by having a meltdown worthy of a lunatic. 'It's not about the rooftop, there's something wrong with you.'
"I know," he whispers to himself.
Draco runs after him, "Hey! Harry, where the hell are you…"
Harry is already shaking his head, "I need a moment," he shrugs his hand out of Draco's hold, "Please don't follow me. I'll be in the bathroom. I'll be back soon, okay?"
Draco looks hesitant, and honestly, Harry had expected that. But also, he can't help the tiny hint of irritation that sparks in his chest when Draco resists. Harry needs to blow off steam, he really needs his alone time, this is becoming too much.
Everything is. Harry needs to go. Go. Go!
"What if…"
"Nothing is going to happen in five minutes, Draco," Harry snaps. He feels like an asshole for being this manipulative, but there is honestly no way that he can handle Draco right now. For his sake, not for Harry's.
Draco looks at him, he knows Harry's lying. Of course, he is. Because the truth is, Harry has no way of knowing what will happen if left alone. Something could happen, and Harry knows firsthand just how shitty their luck is. Kidnapping, torture, blood and all those niceties.
He doesn't even care at this point.
He's also not going to voice this very redundant fact out to Draco. He already knows.
"I'll be back."
"Okay," Draco's mutter is tuned out as Harry rapidly walks away.
"Something happened."
'Something is happening right now,' Sirius is walking beside him, and glances back at Draco over his shoulder before continuing, 'Those weren't dreams, but you weren't awake. Were you awake?'
"No, I don't know," Harry says shortly, lengthening his strides, even though he knows it won't help escape Sirius.
He might be able to escape Draco, but he can't run away from himself.
"How about honey?"
"Nope," Draco says, popping the 'p'. It was uncouth, but he hasn't had the time to be the proper pureblood wizard for a while now.
The train compartment they're sitting in is cramped, but mostly warm. The seats are fraying at the edges, threads picked apart by past passengers. There's a dull, yellow stain under one of the seats. But this is the most comfortable and sheltered they'd been in a while. Even staying in those laundry stores had been fraught with tension. Here? No one could deny their right to be here.
Harry tilts his head to the side, questioning, "Drake?"
"I will skin you," Draco replies blandly as he continues running his hands up and down Harry's arms. In spite of the warmth, Harry's so cold, and bony, and Draco's hands aren't much better. Still, Harry seems to like it. Harry is currently sitting between his legs, with his back against Draco's chest. The contact sends a burst of warmth through his stomach, like taking a sip of hot chocolate on a cold, snowy December evening, except the feeling never ends.
"Dragon?"
'Dragon.' Draco's hands still on Harry's arm, and he turns the word over in his mouth. That was a name only his mother had ever called him. Sometimes father, but usually Mother. He'd never been familiar enough with anyone else for them to use it, not even Severus or Blaise. He doesn't know how he'd feel if Harry started calling him that, especially in that- that voice of his.
Sweet, gentle, loving.
"What is up with the nicknames?" he asks instead of approving or disapproving it.
"You're my boyfriend," Harry shrugs lightly, and rests his head back on Draco, the word sends a jolt of warmth through him again. It will never get old. "I want to call you names."
"But what's wrong with my own name?"
"Nothing, I actually adore your name." Harry smiles, looking up at him with his head tilted back. Draco wants to lean down and kiss his nose. "How about chicken pie?"
"Chicken pie?" Draco blinks, thoughts of kisses fleeing at the absurdity, "In what world is that a term of endearment?"
"I don't know!" Harry exclaims with a snort, "I've never had a boyfriend before. Or a girlfriend… or I don't know." Harry bites his lip, "Noodle?"
Draco snorts, "That's an insult. Also, what happened to your huge major crush on that Ravenclaw moron last year. What was her name… Chang?" he tries not to sneer, "I'm pretty sure second base with Chang is considered dating,"
"Oh," Harry flushes red, "Actually, that was... something. There was no second base. I don't know what was wrong with me. Sweetie?"
Draco wrinkles his nose, "Ew, no. Believe it or not, I am perfectly content with my own name, darling."
"You just called me darling," he pouts.
"Sometimes, I just adore how you can't pick up on irony and sarcasm, ma cerise," Draco drawls, resting his chin on Harry's head, preventing him from looking up at him.
"Wait, what was that?"
"My cherry in french?"
"I like how that sounds." Harry then proceeds to grab Draco's hands and then wrap them around himself, resting his own hands around Draco's wrists, keeping them there. Draco doesn't mind. Of course, he fucking doesn't. This is amazing. "How did you know that?"
Draco tightens his grip on Harry, "Because I'm… french? I mean I was born here, but the Malfoy family is inherently french."
Harry hums, "I keep learning all these funny things about you. You're french. Oh my god, this explains stuff." then he fails to elaborate what those "stuff" really consisted of.
Well, that didn't sound flattering at all. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing," Harry quickly says, "But keep calling me that. I like it...cranberry sauce?"
"Harry stop." All these nicknames are giving him whiplash, by constantly reminding him of the conversation they had prior to this moment in the train station. He's not quite sure Harry still remembers that conversation, or all the awful things Draco used to call him.
"I'm sorry. I want to let you know you're special to me. That you're different like I'm different to you."
Harry is different to him. Draco doesn't need any silly nicknames to see that, to prove it. Harry is the most special person in Draco's life. He's never felt this way about anyone, not even any of his obsessions had commanded as much attention from him as Harry does, or for so long.
"You could call me a sewage rat and I would still feel special. You have no idea how long I've wanted this," certainly longer than he'd convinced himself of.
"I wanted this too," Harry pats his hand thoughtfully, "I never knew I wanted it with you, never in a million years. But, yeah. Also, you're nowhere near a sewage rat. You're like a tiger, if we're in the realm of animal symbolism."
"A tiger?" Draco asks absently, too busy relishing in the way Harry snuggles up to him. God forbid, anyone, particularly his classmates catching him snuggling with Potter, but dear god is it addictive.
It just makes this whole shit show better. Even the tremors in Harry's hands aren't too bad right now, if he tries hard enough, he can almost forget they are there. Then he blinks, a small laugh escaping him, "A tiger?"
"What, you don't like it? Stop laughing, oh my god, you're awful!" Harry swats at Draco's thigh.
"No!" Draco laughs again, this time a small, bitter thing. "I just...how? Tigers are majestic, strong, they're not…" he stops laughing, "...damaged."
"You're not damaged," Harry responds immediately.
A long, weary sigh escapes him, "Harry…"
"No seriously," Harry twists around, facing Draco, "I don't know about you, but if you ask me, I'd say the scars are kind of like stripes. Like a white tiger's stripes. Metaphorically speaking."
"White tigers?"
"They're my favourite," Harry juts out his chin, "and yes I have favourites. And yes, because silver and white is sort of your colour scheme. So it matches."
Draco just sort of stares at Harry for a few seconds, trying to keep up with him. The scars as tiger stripes, well. That's certainly nice imagery, and if only it had been true. And if Harry already thinks of them like that... "How do you think of this stuff? I don't mean it in a bad way, it's just… I never would have thought of that in a million years."
"It's stupid," Harry mumbles, straightening up again.
"It's really not."
Harry lets out a contented sigh as he relaxes against Draco again, "Most times, I can imagine things more than they are," he extends a hand and points at the stain, "Like that stain… That's an elephant, can you see the trunk?"
He can't, it's just an ugly stain from merlin knew what. "No,"
Harry huffs, "Well, it's there. I know it's weird, I don't usually go out of my way to make people aware of the freaky things I think about and-"
"They're not freaky. They're pretty." how could someone who sees a fucking stain as much more than it could be, think of it as freaky? It's wonderous, anything beyond the regular imagination. Draco envies him for it, but also can't imagine anyone else harbouring that kind of power other than Harry.
After all, Harry saw him as something more than he could ever be.
"Pretty?" Harry sounds sceptical, "No, they're insane."
"They're imaginative."
Harry scoffs, "When I was younger, I used to have an imaginary puppy. You're telling me that's not freakish?" he bites his lips, and doesn't wait for an answer, "Don't laugh, okay? It's just that, they bought Dudley a retriever, he had it for like three days before he got tired of it, but he was so kind. We cuddled plenty when I was doing yard work, and when he left… I sort of still had him around."
He stamps down on the fury he feels whenever Harry mentions one of his awful Muggle relatives and makes himself ask, "Did you give it a name?"
"Nah, just puppy.," Harry hesitantly smiles, "It's stupid, I've never told this to anyone. Most people call me bonkers when I tell them this stuff."
Draco immediately shakes his head, "I think you were just lonely. And I think that's lovely, not you being lonely, but...having such a strong mind."
Harry stills a little, and Draco tries not to be alarmed by it. "You're not freaked out by it?"
"Harry," Draco smiles wryly, "I used to kidnap bumblebees individually to make a hive in my room. There's no such a thing as crazy. Or bonkers or weird. We're just us. And I like you for you."
"Great," Harry nods, relaxing back again. After a few moments, he speaks up again, a strange tilt to his voice. "I need to tell you something."
It puts Draco instantly on alert, "What is it?"
"I've been having weird dreams. Like, since that night. I feel weird, all the time." Draco's heart drops. Harry continues, oblivious to Draco's creeping panic, "I know I'm forgetting stuff, I sleep, but I'm still tired… I think it's the being on the run thing." Harry turns his head to face Draco again, and Draco can only hope his face doesn't reflect whatever he's thinking or feeling. "Do you think that's it too?"
"Um…" He swallows, "yeah. I think that's it. When we reach safety, it'll be fine."
This is horrible. Easily one of the worst things he's ever done to Harry. Not even their four-year rivalry counts, because then they hadn't trusted each other. Harry is suffering and Draco is gaslighting him. He has to tell him. Could he tell him? No, no, no he can't do that to Harry.
But this is painful to watch.
"You're right," Harry gives a firm nod and it looks like he's trying to convince himself. Draco's heart hurts. "I'm just being paranoid."
He tightens his hold on Harry further and hopes he isn't hurting him. "You have to tell me if something else happens, okay?"
It's not as if he can do anything about it.
"Draco, I always tell you everything." There's a small mischievous smile creeping across his face when he holds Draco's gaze.
"What," Draco narrows his eyes, "What's that look?"
"Well,'" Harry runs his fingers on Draco's knees. "we have two hours, and all this compartment to ourselves,"
"All the things we could get up to," Draco drawls.
"Oh," Harry quirks a brow, "You have ideas?"
"Plenty," Draco mutters and his eyes droop.
Draco's arms feel like his cupboard. Now Harry understands how colossal the scale of a misunderstanding driven from that statement could be. But he doesn't mean it in a bad way, rather the opposite, really.
His arms are like the cupboard. In the sense that they are safe, warm, warmer than Harry is, they are firm, they are sure. They protect him.
When Draco touches him, or holds him, or even looks at him, he is sure of himself. It's always been this way, it doesn't have anything to do with them dating, anything with the kisses. It's just how Draco is.
He's confident about his feelings, he's bold in ways that Harry could never be. He knows what he wants.
And when Draco acts as if he wants him, Harry feels sugar cubes melting in his chest. So even in sleep, in the calm lull of the moving train, when Draco holds him, Harry feels marginally calm.
Calmer than he probably should be feeling, seeing as Sirius has been glaring at him since that morning. On and off, Harry feels the man in the too tight and stifling space of their compartment.
He doesn't talk, not because he doesn't want to, but rather because Harry doesn't want him to.
He's content, with Draco finally getting some rest, with them safe and warm and not freezing to death.
"Honestly," Draco had told him this morning, "Fuck Severus. But let's cut him some slack for being a control freak. He saved our lives."
Harry doesn't quite agree with that. It's not that Snape saved them from freezing to death in a blizzard. It's just that Draco stole Severus' kit to begin with.
'You can't keep avoiding me,' Sirius says, and Harry turns his head towards him, reigning back a sigh.
"I don't want you to talk," Harry orders. And then snorts, right. As if Sirius even listens to him anymore. Not a single shred of coherency in his mind belongs to him. Harry is a puppet to the whims of some unknown factor messing around in his brain. Sirius has been corrupted as well.
'It's going to get worse,' Sirius ignores him. 'You can feel it, can't you?'
"This is the first time he's asleep since god knows when. Shut up," he whispers. Sirius is always so loud, boisterous. The exact opposite of him really. And Harry sometimes doesn't realise how he's matching the same volume until others have already noticed. He's getting better at it. He doesn't want to wake Draco up, not because he was arguing with himself. At least Draco can't hear Sirius.
Of course, he can't, Sirius doesn't exist.
'You can't dream anymore. That is a big fucking deal,' Sirius runs his eyes over Draco, 'He's asleep… you need to-'
"I need to be with him. I like being with him," Harry says firmly. He won't let Sirius- his own subconscious- ruin this.
Sirius sneers, an ugly expression. Sirius is supposed to represent the good things. If everything had gone right. If. If. If.
This Sirius is foreign, it's his own mind rebelling and twisting into something hideous. It's something Harry barely recognises. The Sirius in a Hawaiian shirt and a butterbeer in his hand is such a distant memory Harry wonders how he ever conjured him up. 'He's a cheat. A bully. He hated your guts.'
Harry snuggles back into Draco as gently as he can, mindful of both their injuries. He stares up at the plain ceiling so he doesn't have to look at Sirius, the light fixtures casting a dull glare over everything.
He thinks of before. Before everything went wrong, "You were so kind to me, Sirius. Do you remember? All those nights, when I cried myself to sleep…"
'Stop deflecting. You need to stop this. He's lying to you,' Sirius is near snarling, and that frightens Harry almost as much as his not-dreams. There's been so little kindness lately, only Draco. And now Sirius wants to ruin that. His own mind wants to ruin it. Why can't he just enjoy the little things? Like being held by Draco?
"You're my best friend," he continues undeterred, blinking back tears, "It's so weird, saying that. But you are. Just like Miss Simons, and Remus, and Ron and Hermione and even Puppy. You're all the same essence."
'You're hurting,' Sirius says, his gaze intense, almost challenging, 'Do you know why you are on a train? Do you even know where you are going? Do you know how he found you?'
Harry clenches his teeth, and then slowly loosens his jaw, counting backwards from twenty. "He's kind of like you, but different. He's real, Sirius. I swear to God, he is so real. I don't think-"
'He is a snake.'
Harry lifts up his chin, "I don't think I've ever met anyone as real. And if he's real, then so am I. I feel real." It's a funny conversation, Harry thinks. Even by his standards. Both he and Sirius ignore what the other is saying, despite being part of the same mind. He wonders how this would've gone in his head if he were normal.
' You're falling apart,' Sirius folds his arms across his chest.
"He's holding me. I don't feel like everything is going to shit when he does that. He found me." And it wasn't the first time either. He'd found him before too, bought him back from death, in that bathroom, all those weeks ago. Merlin, it feels like a lifetime. Draco's always saving him.
'But how?'
Harry finally looks back at Sirius properly, whose expression is calmer now. Relatively. He can't tell whether it's because of him, or Harry himself. "Does it matter? I'm alive and safe, and he wants me."
' I hate it when you act so stupid. You're smart. Smarter than this,' Sirius crosses his arms.
Harry stares at Sirius for several long moments and knows if he were anyone other than a figment of his own imagination, he'd have looked away by now. "You're right," he says, his voice flat. "I'm not okay, Sirius." He takes a deep breath, "He was right, I'm not crazy, I'm just lonely. That's why you're here, that's why Miss Simons was here, and Remus… I was so lonely for so long," he traces small circles on the back of Draco's hand.
'He's going to leave.' Sirius' voice sounds strange now.
"He won't. Not if I don't run again." He lifts his eyes back up to Sirius.
'And if he dies?'
He's thought about this. But running away didn't work. So… "Then I'll die. But I can't die, not knowing how it felt like to be with him…" he can't do this.
Not anymore. The realization hits him like a train. The truth is bare and simple, and Harry stills.
He doesn't want to do this anymore, he doesn't want Sirius, or Remus or a warped version of the people he knows hanging around. He wants to be real.
"Sirius," he says, and feels as if this is a dream, "I think it's time we said goodbye."
Sirius doesn't startle at the sudden proclamation. His face remains passive. 'Why?'
"Because I don't want to play the game anymore," Harry laces his fingers through Draco where they're wound around his stomach. He's warm, both of them are. Which is such a novelty now that he sighs in contentment, "Had everything gone right, you would be my father, had everything gone right, I would be at school with my friends, but if everything had gone right, he wouldn't be holding me like this."
'You need someone.'
"I have him. You were so good to me, for so long," Harry smiles, "I love you. You are my childhood, and my comfort… but he is-" He glances down at their intertwined hands, "-my love. He is real. When he kisses me, I feel like a good person."
'You're my kiddo,' they both know that Sirius is only arguing for argument's sake now.
Harry nods, "You were always there for me. But I can't play the game anymore, knowing that it wouldn't get me to him. I think… I think I love him."
'Are you sure he loves you?'
"I'm sure, whatever he feels, I don't want to go back to that game again. I want to let myself feel, for once. I think I'm done not facing the world," his eyes prickle a little.
Sirius nods, decisively, as if Harry had just confirmed something for him. 'I love you. I'm going to go now, okay?'
"Okay," he swipes at his eyes with a free hand, "I love you too."
'This compartment door can always open again. If you…'
"I know. I know. You'll be in good hands."
Sirius glances back over at Draco, a different look than before, 'So will you.'
And then he steps outside the compartment, slides the door close behind him. And it's just Harry, silently letting the tears fall in Draco's arms.
Draco woke up to Harry making them peanut butter sandwiches, using a torn piece of bread to plop the thing on another piece, as he spread it evenly and topped it off with another from the package.
"Innovative, huh?" Harry smiles at him, handing him one from the pile, as Draco's heart slowly ceases from jackhammering in his chest. It's fine, he's alive.
His eyes scan Harry from head to toe, as he berates himself for falling asleep. He munches on the sandwich and decides that Harry looks healthy and surprisingly bright enough.
"Train is bound to stop in a few minutes," Harry licks the remnants of the peanut butter from his fingers, snickering as Draco makes a face.
"Don't make that face at me," Harry says with a grin, "you just don't know the pleasure of licking off food off your fingers, once you start... there's no stopping."
"It's gross."
Harry sticks his finger in the jar and smears the peanut butter on the back of Draco's hand. Draco winces harder and Harry grabs his sandwich.
"Go on," he's making a knowing face, "lick it."
"Potter-" he says, holding his hand as far away from his face as possible.
"It is so fucking fun. Haven't you ever had cheese puffs? Licking off the cheese dust is the whole point,"
"What is…" he doesn't think he wants to know. He looks down at his hand and grimaces, "Okay fine." Feeling like a moron he brings his hand up to his mouth and licks off the peanut butter. He tries hard not to think about what his parents would think of this.
"There he goes," Harry leans in for a quick kiss just as the train shrieks to a stop. Draco relaxes, well, if it made Harry happy.
Draco looks out the window, "I can't believe 'Market Deeping is the name of an actual place," Draco mutters, as they pack up their meal and shoulder the bag.
"It shouldn't be far from here to the bus station."
Draco winces, more walking. "What if we took another-"
Harry shakes his head, and Draco had already known that it wouldn't be possible, but his heart still sinks when Harry says, "We don't have a budget for another set of tickets. We need to get to… um, jeez what was the name…"
"It's fine," Draco says quietly. There is a mounting degree of terror, that he feels whenever Harry forgets something, because the truth is, most of the time, Draco can't tell whether it's a Harry thing, or the curse being at play. He just doesn't know, and it's that uncertainty that is driving him insane.
Because the difference between a mind in the throes of deterioration and the usual shortcomings every person could be riddled with is not as pronounced as Draco would have thought.
It's the little things, the forgetting thing, being cold all the damn time no matter how hard Draco tries to make it go away. It's the nightmares. It's that terrifying silence that accompanies Harry's uncertainty on top of Draco's.
"No, it's not!" Harry snaps, and then quickly softens his voice, "I swear I knew it. Um... something with S. Maybe," he taps his chin, "We need to buy a map too."
Draco stares at Harry's face, pinched with frustration and chewing through his lips. He raises a hand to free his lip from between his teeth, his finger, lingers on Harry's lip and says, "Actually, I have an idea."
They need to stop being themselves for a while. They need to rest.
"You do?"
Draco grins.
The door has wind chimes. It startles Draco slightly as he pushes it open, greeted by a constant buzzing sound and sweet-smelling treats, he's holding Harry's hand in his.
"Are you sure this fits our budget?" Harry says slowly, just for Draco's ears to hear, and the blond squeezes his hand.
"Come on," he says, squashing the fluttering in his chest. The store is thankfully empty, and only the ice cream clerk is behind the counter. It happened quite by luck, seeing as Draco's plan, was literally walking into the first interesting store he found as they walked. Ice cream is good, it's safe, and hopefully cheap.
"Just a reminder," Harry breathes, "We don't have a space for wasting in our budget. They're not just gonna-"
"Harry," he squeezes the boy's hand again. "It's fine."
Draco raises his chin and sees Harry smirk from his peripheral vision.
Draco knows better. He always does. They both need this, he hates thinking of this as splurging, he winces because this should be nothing. This is just fucking ice cream.
'Too much of things means there's less of other things,' Harry had told him before, and Draco couldn't understand. He's starting to understand now.
He wouldn't have thought twice about this if he were the Draco from before. But each step to the store's counter makes him feel as if his shoes are made of lead.
"Can I help you, lads?" The clerk asks with a lopsided grin, her apron is striped red and blue and she has a ridiculous hat on her head. She's a muggle. Obviously a muggle.
His initial reaction should have been sneering in disgust, but it's not. She's just like them, if not cleaner, and she's smiling at them, even though they look worse for wear.
Draco has practised his best pompous expression before in his head. "Two sundaes, if you would please."
"Sure thing." She says, her name tag-That's a thing in the muggle world- reads Maggie.
"Thank you," Harry says for him and Draco flushes. He's practised that before. He has manners. Time and time again he practised, and he still forgot.
"Two sundaes coming up, that'll be five Quid."
Draco freezes for a second. He is vaguely aware of the muggle money system but he is more than sure that there's no such a thing as 'Quid'.
Before he can experience a full-blown freakout, Harry shrugs his hand out of Draco's and reaches into his coat pocket, where the wallet is.
"Thank you," he says as he counts the funny pieces of paper Draco knows as Pound and hands them over.
"Why don't you two take a seat?" Maggie says and Harry takes Draco's hand again, the stolen wallet clenched in his other hand as he herds him to the flimsy folding chairs and the table.
"You are treating this way more rationally than I thought you were going to."
"I don't approve, but this is... nice."
Harry's right, it feels quite nice. Draco feels safe. He made a good choice, bringing them here.
"I wanted to do something nice for you," he says honestly, "We both needed a break, and I-"
"Draco Malfoy," Harry cuts in with a smirk, "You brought me on a date?"
He has, hasn't he? He hadn't thought of it as a date when the idea initially took root in his mind but Harry's right. This is their first proper date.
Quite pathetic, in comparison to what he could and should have given Harry.
"I'm sure I can do better than a Sundae shop," he says, and Harry scoffs.
"I don't want your lavish spendings, Malfoy. This is nice. Thank you for buying me ice cream with stolen money."
"You git."
"No seriously!" He is being serious. Draco can tell. That's the worst and simultaneously the best part of it, "As far as first dates go, this one isn't half bad." His smile expands into a grin, "But for future reference… Quid means Pound. It's slang, tiger."
Draco wrinkles his nose at the pet name, "First of all, no. Second of all, they use slang for money?"
"I know," Harry nods in mock sympathy. "We're all a bunch of uncultured peasants. You'll have to pardon us, Prince Draco of the Malfoy dynasty."
"You're being a twat."
"Your twat."
"Here we go!" Maggie the muggle barges in their private little bubble, two glass sundae bowls in her hands. "Enjoy!"
"Thank you," Draco says this time before Harry can even open his mouth. He feels a shiver rush down his spine, but he stifles the urge to cringe as her hand brushes against his.
She's a muggle. Her touch is dirt. Her entire being in his presence is a stain.
That's what he's been taught all his life.
But it doesn't feel like it now.
When Harry smiles up at her and she winks, when Harry's hand squeezes his wrist across the table, the waitress is the last thing on Draco's mind.
"I feel a bit guilty, eating this," Harry says, swirling the spoon around the bowl.
"Don't," Draco firmly orders. "This is a date. I order you to stop."
Harry laughs. The genuine one. A beautiful sound. One for which Draco would steal a thousand wallets, and that makes him cringe in his own head. He's turning into a sap. Dear Merlin and Circe.
"My guilt just magically disappeared," he says, and there's a bit of ice cream smudged on his lips. If they weren't in such a public place, Draco would've kissed and licked and sucked it off his lips. He clears his throat and crams his spoon in his mouth.
Intrusive thoughts are not acquainted with time and place, it seems.
"Harry, we deserve this," he forces himself to look back at Harry's eyes. "No, don't look at me like that. We do, we deserve this."
Harry sighs, "Yeah. But we're mailing this poor man's ID card back to him." he fiddles with the card in his hand.
"His what?"
"His identification." Harry pushes the card across the table for Draco to see, there's a tiny square picture of a man, and a series of numbers that don't really make sense. Draco hums, an identification card, that seems rather smart. Not that he's going to admit that aloud.
He doesn't know why Harry wants to bother with all that, but if it will make him feel better, then Draco isn't going to deny him that. The only problem here would be: "We don't have owls."
Harry laughs around the spoon in his mouth. "We don't need to," he wheezes, "We just push them through the mail box slot in the street. It gets back to them from there."
"How?"
"Mailman?" Harry shrugs, "Or woman. I don't know. They empty the boxes and deliver the letters."
"But how?"
"Remember cars? There's a truck-a type of car- specified just for letters. Or a bike. I'm not really sure of this stuff. They find the addresses, then use the vehicle to get it there,"
Draco sniffs, these cars, and bikes. He hates them, and to have a whole truck, a truck, just for owling things? He shakes his head but decides not to pursue it further.
"This is delicious," Harry says, licking his spoon. What was his obsession with licking stuff in front of him? It's like he deliberately wants Draco to get a hard-on in public places.
"It is," Draco faintly agrees, "Doesn't beat the one in Diagon alley though," his favourite was the Butterbeer one, it had a bitter aftertaste that Draco really liked. His mother had loved the mint chocolate chip, and his father never ate ice cream with them. Although Draco had seen him getting a second serving of rose sorbet in that one dining place they'd been to a few times.
Harry looks surprised, "You've been to Florean Fortescue? I've never seen you there."
"You've been?"
"Are you kidding? I had a huge bowl of ice cream there like every other day when I was living in the leaky Cauldron. Mr. Fortescue gave me extra portions."
Draco opens his mouth, incredulous, "You lived in the leaky Cauldron," the ice cream on his spoon is starting to drip.
"I keep forgetting that you weren't a part of my life before. It's such a weird feeling."
Draco himself can't believe that they haven't been together forever. That he spent four years they could've been friends, or even more, on petty rivalry and jealousy. "Why is that?"
"It feels like we've never been apart. It's like I've known you all my life." He stuffs another bit of ice cream in his mouth. And Draco stares. Harry's halfway through his, but Draco has barely eaten two spoonfuls. He's suddenly reminded of that day in Shell Cottage, sitting on the porch after a fight. Eating Harry's mango ice cream.
It feels like a really nice dream. Although the ice cream right now is a lot better.
He clears his throat, "So, Leaky Cauldron?"
"Mm hm," Harry hums around his spoon, "I'll tell you all about it. Eat your ice cream though, it's starting to melt."
He scoops up another spoonful because his previous one melted off entirely, he raises the spoon and thinks about something to toast to, "Here's to…"
"Dave," Harry says, grinning widely.
Draco stops short, "Who the hell is Dave?"
"Our benefactor," Harry jerks his thumb towards where Draco is keeping their wallet. "To Dave?"
"To Dave," he says after a beat of silence. They may as well.
They clink their spoons together.
Market Deeping doesn't have any woods or visible forest nearby for them to duck behind, not to Harry's knowledge anyways. It is actually a quaint place, with neat cobblestoned streets, and crammed shops.
If it had been any other occasion, Harry might have even enjoyed the scenery, it was all very minimalistic, but at the same time, Harry got the impression that Market Deeping was a page out of a fairytale town directory.
It's cloudy, not quite cold enough to rain, but Harry feels the crispness in the air and dreads the next twenty-four hours as he downs his last vial of nerve soother.
He's officially out now.
The ice cream store was pretty close to the train station, but funnily enough, the bus station isn't as close as they thought.
He holds Draco's sleeve, as they quickly make their way down the stairs, their heads ducked down. Draco smiles at him from the corner of his eyes, and Harry smiles back. It's ridiculous, the juvenile mirth with which Harry thinks about their first 'Date'.
Some part of him, a minuscule voice in the background, wishes that it was always like this for them. Harry and Draco against the world. No war, no magic. Just them. Maybe they would live here, in Market Deeping, in that cute apartment between the bakery and a pet shop.
They pass it without a second glance, but Harry could care less. They could live by the sea, or maybe they could keep travelling like this, from place to place. Not afraid for their lives, just exploring places that could never exist in Harry's simple-minded head.
"You know…" Draco tells him, still smiling, the pattern of their feet on the ground feels oddly satisfying, "Muggles have decent architecture."
Harry quirks an eyebrow at him, "Oh you think so?"
"It's not a compliment."
"I don't know," Harry teases, "I heard a smidgen of a compliment in your voice." He looks around them again, his eyes only subtly admiring, "This place is beautiful."
"Yeah, it is," Draco says, but unlike Harry, he is not admiring the buildings and the neat streets, but rather Harry's face.
Harry feels the sugar cubes melting again. It's ridiculous. What Draco does to him.
They share the rest of the bag of crisps Harry found in the train station the day prior, and use it as an excuse to walk shoulder to shoulder, pretending they were fine. Pretending this was just an outing and not a desperate attempt to escape.
When they're done, Harry licks his fingers again, mainly to tease Draco, who always looks scandalized and indignant when he does that. To his surprise, Draco takes the cue and does the same while rolling his eyes.
"You joined the forces," Harry gasps mockingly, scrunching up the empty bag of chips in his hands. A faint cramp runs through his palms.
"Oh shut up. It is gross. Our hands were filthy."
"But was it fun?"
Draco rolls his eyes again and softly shifts Harry's body sideways with his own. Harry takes that as confirmation.
"Everything is fun when you're around. I was not expecting that." Draco surprises him by saying that. And Harry stops momentarily while the words catch up with him.
"They are?"
Draco shrugs, "They've always been."
Harry just grins in response.
They find the bus station a while later. It is surprisingly modern compared to the rest of the picturesque town. It has a snack booth and everything.
Harry bites his lips as he leans down the counter to speak to the ticket guy. Some man in his middle thirties, dressed in a dark blue uniform who looks just about done with the world.
"Hello," Harry says with a smile, "two tickets to...um... Spalding, please,"
"Two will be ten Quid."
Harry pays the fair, even though it sounded a bit overpriced, gets the tickets, and rejoins Draco on the benches. Their bus should arrive in twenty minutes, and thankfully, the benches are empty enough. There's only a lady with her poodle, occupying the seats except for them.
"I can't believe we passed London," Draco mutters, his arms crossed, and his head leaned back over the seat, "It seemed like such a huge milestone. But we just passed it by."
"All that stolen money though."
Draco turns his head to look at him, "If it was for a good cause, which it was, I'd say it's not too morally corrupt."
"What if the people who lost the money really needed it?" he twists his fingers in his lap. He's starting to feel really guilty about the ice cream now.
"You do that a lot, you know," Draco says casually.
Harry looks up at Draco, who's staring at him. "Do what?"
"You make tiny disasters in your head." Draco takes Harry's hands, "It's going to be fine. No one is going to die because we stole a wallet from them. Harry, no one carries their entire wealth in a wallet… or coin sack or whatever."
"I hope so," he tightens his fingers around Draco's as much as he can. Which isn't much, but Draco squeezes back.
"You couldn't say the same for us," he continues, "We very much would've died without that money. And we are carrying our entire life in that one bag right now."
Harry gives him a smile, "You're good at justifying things. Have you ever thought about being a lawyer as a career?"
"Actually, no. I just thought I would replace my father one day. It doesn't leave any room for other career prospects," Draco shrugs, but Harry knows grief when he sees it. Draco quickly changes focus. "You?" He lights up, "Wait! Let me guess… Quidditch player."
Harry makes a face, "Maybe."
"You don't sound too sure," Draco laughs. "No, let me try again...hmm, Auror doesn't seem your type." He cocks his head to the side, "A professor?"
"Me and teaching?"
Draco shrugs, "You taught me how to cook. Hmm, maybe you should be a chef. I can vouch for-"
"No," Harry says, a little sharper than he'd intended.
Draco looks taken aback for a moment, before he nods and murmurs, "I'm sorry."
"It's fine," Harry shakes his head, leaning against Draco to show he's not upset, "It's just, they forced me to cook. It was a chore. Not something I loved doing. I'm good at it because I had to be."
"I didn't even think about it like that. I'm-"
"Don't say sorry. I'm not," he lets go of Draco's hand and stands up. "Let's go buy stuff in the snack booth."
"We have some bread left," Draco says even as he stands up.
"We need more. And a map, probably. Come along,"
Harry, by Draco's insistence for some reason, takes the window seat. They're somewhere in the middle row. The bus is semi-filled, it should be about forty minutes from here to Spalding.
Draco leans his head on Harry's shoulder, and Harry smiles, "You can always nap more."
"No," Draco firmly says, "I'm not sleeping."
"Well, I'm going to be reading anyway, so you are gonna be bored."
Harry ignores the pain seizing his fingers into stillness, flexes them and then reaches for the bag's strap. He hasn't looked over Dumbledore's diary in a while. They were too busy not dying, and now that he has time, he might as well.
He wouldn't know what to do with himself otherwise. He doesn't like being left alone with his own mind lately.
Sirius' absence should feel significant in a moment like this, but with Draco's head on his shoulder, Harry doesn't feel the pang of anguish that was expected.
He flips the diary open, his fingers tracing random pages as he tries to remember where he left off last. Albus Dumbledore, whilst very organized with the sequence of events, was not as neat when it came to writing down said sequences.
His handwriting almost trumped Harry's in its awful quality.
He grips the edges of the worn pages and then settles on a page that feels new.
July 1993
He was besotted with the boy. I could not only verify that through the memories I extracted from him but also from my days with him as a colleague.
Horace always had a knack for collecting students like prized artefacts. It was a harmless hobby to him, and he had confessed to me once how having connections with the future 'somebodys' of the wizarding world was like insurance to him.
I didn't necessarily encourage his behaviour but didn't dispel it either. James Norton used Horace's very own leverage as a collected prize to finish his potion apprenticeship.
Horace benefited his handpicked students to find their footing right out of school, and they benefited him after retirement.
Tom was different to him.
The boy's relationship with his Professors, me included, was vastly different from other students'. Tom was frighteningly intelligent, he had a yearning for learning, good and bad both.
This yearning had progressed to such an extent that the defence Professor had banned Tom from asking questions about anything outside of their sourcebook.
"He has a… morbid curiosity, let's say," is what Lauren had told me upon questioning.
Horace didn't find the morbid curiosity odd in the slightest. Where other Professors expressed their discomfort by it, Horace actively defended it.
"Curiosity needs nourishment. It's what we do here, Albus."
I knew Tom had gone straight to him for his particular line of questioning.
I knew after Horace's Christmas dinner party, Tom stayed for hours afterwards.
And after acquiring the exact memory. I knew they were fabricated.
I asked him, more than once, if he had something important to tell me. I worded my warnings carefully, Horace was a proud man.
I needed to know why he felt the need to fabricate them in the first place.
But he never budged. Not even when I explained the direness of the situation, my suspicions about the oncoming war.
"I was his head of house, he had a question and I answered it to the extent of my knowledge. I rebuked him once it got out of hand and dismissed him right after."
We both knew he was lying.
What I had from him was meagre. Just the dinner party itself, the pleasantries, Tom's gift for Horace, and then an innocuous question.
"I was wondering, sir," his voice was smooth as silk, his eyes sharp, "about a word I stumbled upon in the restricted section of the library one night."
"Horcrux."
Horace had been visibly startled, and not a little uneasy about this line of questioning. But Tom had been his favourite student, and favour won out eventually.
They were alone, in the next memory, wearing the same outfits, the dregs of the recent dinner party evident on the dinner table.
Tom was intelligent, perhaps too much so, and used his words like weapons, carefully worded, with the perfect expressions and manners. He'd managed to make Horace mention the ritual of Mann, along with the other, more well-known ones. The harsh way in which he chastised Tom when the boy asked for specifics.
The righteous anger and the regretful student. Fake. fabricated.
Who knew what he'd actually said to Tom that day? Something that Horace was too ashamed to admit, even with the seriousness of the situation.
Something worth knowing.
"Draco," Harry mutters once the bus cringes to a stop.
"Hmm," Draco nuzzles into Harry, and Harry has to keep from giggling.
"Come on," he says, amused, "We're here. Spalding."
Draco shoots up in his seat, "How long was I asleep?!"
Harry blinks at Draco's disgruntled state, "Like forty minutes?"
Draco scrubs a hand down his face and then racks his eyes over Harry, looking for something. "You didn't sleep, did you?"
"No," Harry frowns. "I was reading," and sleeping wouldn't have been good anyway, one of them had to stay awake lest they miss their stop.
"Merlin," Draco slumps in his seat.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Nothing. Um, let's go," Draco says, standing up and straightening out his clothes. Sirius' words echo in Harry's head, but he squashes them down. They're okay and Sirius isn't here anymore.
Draco wouldn't lie to him.
"Spalding to Sutterton," Draco says, smiling at Harry, "Here we come."
"Draco," Harry's voice is quiet, subdued. Draco glances at him, they're huddled together under the meagre shed over the bus stop. The rain hammering against the thin roof is loud enough to drown out most thought. Draco has to strain to hear Harry's voice. They've been here for hours.
"Hmm?"
They've been quiet for a while now. In companion silence. Or so Draco had thought.
"We need to stay the night," Harry says, and Draco can see his teeth chattering. He moves even closer to Harry, trying to lend him some of his own warmth. But they're both wet, both cold, there's no body heat to give.
"What?" Draco says, shaking his head. They have to get to Slughorn as soon as possible. He can't let Harry suffer any longer. They're so close. "No. The rain is gonna stop soon we can make it-"
"Please," Harry interrupts, and he looks like he wants to touch Draco, but his hands stay firmly crammed into his pockets. "We need to stay the night."
The pleading makes Draco falter. Harry sounds odd. Tensed. Snappish. He sounds in pain. If he ignored him now… He couldn't bear it. They're both miserable, maybe a rest won't hurt. He can't say no to Harry. Not when he barely asks for anything.
"Okay…" He swallows, "Okay, I'm sure we can find someplace…" He squints out in the rain, unable to really see through the barrage of water.
"There's a motel over there," Harry says, and Draco looks at him. He has no idea how Harry saw that through his fogged-up glasses. But sure enough, he can see a stark red Vacancy sign lit up about five yards over, glowing through the grey gloom.
"Our money…" He feels around for the wallet. Maybe they shouldn't have gone for that ice cream date. Five pounds wasn't much of a splurge, it really wasn't, but it might if the room is costly. Still, Draco can't bring himself to regret it.
"Fuck the money," Harry says, tensing up, he's looking ahead, his shoulders hunched, "Just… please."
Draco's heart clenches, "Okay."
The hallway is carpeted with a truly atrocious brown rug, and the walls are a hideous beige colour. There's a lonely little table with a vase full of wilted flowers at one end. Draco can see, quite clearly, the way his parents would have turned their nose up at such an establishment. Only fit for the lowest of scums. For dregs and thieves and people who can't afford even basic luxuries.
And yet, here they are. And his parents aren't. He wonders if they'd be ashamed.
"Hello, how may I help you, boys?" The muggle woman's voice is deceptively pleasant as she sits in the dark reception.
The woman is middle-aged, by the looks of it, and her hair, a wispy, mousy brown that is braided and draped over one shoulder, has streaks of grey. She's wearing a worn, baggy jumper, which Draco isn't surprised by, seeing as it fully fits the shabby atmosphere this whole place has going on.
The small hall-if it could even be called that- is lit only by a dirty overhead light casting a yellow glow over the room. The sound of the lashing rain is overbearing in the background.
"Do you have any available rooms?" Draco asks and is proud of the way his voice doesn't wobble. He knows what they look like. Two dirty, homeless teenagers, more criminal than the victim, clad in soaked clothes. If the woman somehow finds something fishy with them, she probably won't let them stay.
"Sure thing, sugar," she says, and opens up a register, picking up a pen that's chained to her desk. "Are your parents on their way as well?"
He feels Harry stiffen beside him, but continues on, as confidently as possible, "No. Just us. One room, if possible."
"Double bed or-"
"Single bed is fine."
She doesn't even bat an eye, and Draco is more relieved at that than he'd ever admit. "And can I have an identification?"
He lifts up his chin, making his voice as bland as possible, "How much more do I have to pay?"
She fidgets, "I can't really lend a room without an identification-"
Draco narrows his eyes, don't let them see any weakness, that's what his father would say. Don't let her know. And money can open so many doors. A door to a muggle motel room? HE shouldn't even have to try. "We are in a pinch, ma'am. I am willing to compensate for any trouble this might cause. We're just staying the night."
He pauses purposefully. Letting her simmer.
"Well," she stares at him, "It is a dreary night to stay out, yes."
Draco smiles, "I'm glad we see eye to eye. What do I need to fill?"
"You and your friend's information," she turns the register over to him, pointing an empty row, "Sign the row after you're done."
Draco takes the pen and jots down their names as Benjamin and Larry Granger, filling in some other fake information he sees from previous rows. He's fairly sure Harry's told him about mobile phone's before, but he can't remember anything about them. He writes down something vaguely similar to what others seem to have written above. He signs a name, barely restraining himself from signing his real one, and turns the pen over to Harry to sign.
Harry takes the pen in shaking hands and sets the point on the paper, but doesn't start writing. "Hey-"
"I'm fine," Harry grits out. The woman is looking curiously at them now.
"Leave it," Draco barely stops himself from calling him by his name.
"You sure you're okay?" The woman butts in, "I can call-"
"Yes, thank you," Draco says sharply, watching as Harry scrawls the name Larry in such a sloppy script it's little more than chicken scratch. "How much is the fare?"
"Well," she stares at Harry for a second too long, then takes the register back. "Twenty quid for the room,"
"Here is forty, please don't call anyone." They're almost out of money now, and Harry's face is worryingly blank beside him. His shoulders are stiff, his hands behind his back.
The woman nods and slides a key over to them, a faded keychain reading the words 'Room No. 47' in faded ink, "Here is your key, we serve breakfast and dinner."
"Great," he says absently, and they both quickly make their way to their room. Up ten creaky stairs, and to the left. It's the second room, and the door creaks when Draco turns the key. He has to feel around the wall a little for the switches, but they turn on after a few lazy blinks.
He turns towards Harry, but something's wrong. Harry shoulders past him without a sound.
"Harry," he says, a little desperately, he needs to know what it is. He has to know if he can fix this. "Harry, listen to me," he grabs Harry's arm and the boy pauses.
"Draco," he says, and his voice sounds strange, "I really need to be alone right now."
"Let me see them," he says, looking at the hands Harry's trying to hide. The bag falls off his shoulder with a subdued plop on the carpet. The same brown as the hallway.
"No," Harry yanks his arm away, "No just piss off," he flexes his fingers, but a few of them don't move. His face is twisted in pain. And if he's showing that much expression, it means he's in a lot of pain. Harry makes his way over to the other door in the room. Draco follows.
Stumbling on the low coffee table and the armchair in his way as Harry rapidly strides to the bathroom.
"Maybe a pain reliever would-"
Harry slams the bathroom door in his face, and an ugly picture frame rattles on the wall.
Draco stares at the cracked, splintered wooden door in front of him.