Draco came to it feeling mildly disoriented, and wasn't that becoming a fucking habit. Lupin stood, leaning over him, concern and confusion written all over his exhausted features.
"Are you okay?"
Ha! Was he ever fucking okay, lately.
Memories didn't come rushing back this time, they were already there. At the front of his mind, clear as shards of glass and, no matter how many times he blinked, they would not go away. Draco was tempted to knock himself unconscious again, hoping to forget. Hoping that, maybe, this time the concussion would be fatal.
He waved Lupin off and stared blankly at the kitchen ceiling. "Dandy", he heard his own voice croaking in the distance. "Just fucking great".
His eyes remained fixed on the harsh lights above him until it became painful. One of the little round bulbs was broken, dull, and for some reasons that bothered him immensely. Electricity, he scoffed unimpressed. Nothing in this fucking muggle world seemed to be going right. Just as he thought so, the two remaining bulbs started flickering until they burned out with a final sizzle, casting the kitchen in semidarkness. Draco could hear his heart pumping, could feel it beating against his ribcage like a mad bird. The floor was suddenly cold and he squirmed, scrambling up until the wall was behind his back, solid and supporting. He had always been in control of his magic, since he was five. Since forever. Long before most of the other kids and yet, here he was, frying fucking lightbulbs like a toddler.
Lupin didn't seem to pick up on his inner panic, though. He barely acknowledged the change in ambience, as if the sudden death of his appliances was nothing more than a common occurrence and, as such, insignificant.
"What happened?" He asked instead, unable to completely hide his impatience. Draco knew he wasn't talking about the lights.
What happened, indeed. The million Galleons question.
The weak illumination coming from the dining room projected long shadows across the kitchen, painting Lupin's face with harsh stokes of black. It made him lose all his soft, worn edges, the one that separated the man from the creature. In that light it was hard to distinguish the unthreatening, almost unassuming figure that was his former Professor, and it was terrifying.
Draco was angry. He hated it, being scared. That too, he had grown out of at 5, as it should have been. As his father had wanted.
He sat up straighter, shifting uncomfortably. He needed to consider his next words carefully, so he took his time until he was certain Lupin was going to start asking again "You need to find Potter". There was no way around it.
The other wizard stammered, unsure, although he didn't look surprised. "But. . . I-why?". It was a plea more than a question and, not for the first time, Draco thought about how deeply Potter was loved.
Only his mother had ever loved him so profoundly. And even then, he was still there, fighting in a war he was raised into. Fitting like a cheap suit in a role he was led to believe he wanted.
No one had given Draco the option of the ocean. No one had set him free in the way this man, a man without any blood obligation, had done for Potter.
Flares of a long tamed jealousy prickled under his skin, feeding his anger like gasoline. He wanted to destroy. He wanted to break this man that loved Potter so much it was revolting.
The words were in his throat "Because he is nothing more than a pig for slaughter. Because Potter has to die and knowing him he will do it willingly. He will sashay to his death with his chin raised, shielding the rest of the world with his massive ego and his trice-damned hero complex that, honestly, is starting to get boring. Because there are no other options, don't you understand, you stupid dreamer?" But he swallowed before any of that made it past his tongue.
He wanted to say it all, and more. He wanted to shout it and watch as the other man's knees buckled as the futility of his attempt to give Harry Potter a better future dawned on him.
Harry Potter didn't have a future. He was never meant to.
But Draco knew now. He knew why the memories were given to him, and he understood why someone like Lupin, someone that loved Potter, would have never accepted what needed to be done. So he said none of that, falling willingly into the role he had been assigned. That, too, was becoming a fucking habit.
And didn't it paint a nice little picture of his character, that Dumbledore had him pegged down as someone capable to uproot a kid from his new, shiny, fucking clueless life and send him to his death.
Still, it was Potter's against hundreds of other's , and Draco could only think of bodies writhing in silent agony on the Manor dinner table, the final caress of snake teeth dancing across their ankles.
Draco swallowed again, vaguely aware of the blood warming his fingertips, where his nails had dug into the tender flesh of his palms.
"Because it was a fucking stupid idea! What the bloody hell were you thinking? Do you know Potter at all? He would hate you if he knew what you did to him." The words tumbled out of his mouth like a waterfall and he hoped the blow would hit low enough to damage. He hoped they would be enough to deter any more questions he didn't want to answer.
Lupin looked both stunned and pained "I know".
It was the deject that Draco could hear in his voice that made him add, almost as an afterthought "The prophecy". Damn self control.
"The prophecy?" The other man parrotted.
"Yes, the Merlin be damned prophecy that declares our precious Potter as the saviour he was born to be. The teenage hero of those badly written romances 14years old touch themself reading, coming with his wand and his second year spells to win against the fairly superior villain and free us all. That. Prophecy."
And then he dies, Draco avoided clarifying, confident that badly written romances didn't end like that. And wasn't real life just splendid!
"Oh." Lupin said dumbly, running a hand across his face.
Draco felt like mimicking the gesture "Listen, all I know is that Potter is somehow important for ending this war" he lied through his teeth "And I am tired. . . Filthy. Honestly, you don't look any better".
To his surprise the other wizard relented, addressing him gently "Yeah, Okay- Okay. There is a bath upstairs, actually quite spacious. . . I mean, if you want to. I'll go and prepare the guest room."
The water was scalding and Draco couldn't remember the last time he had had a bath. It had probably been in the Prefect bathroom and nothing like this. This lonely, this fucking complicated.
He stared at his legs, pale, long, raising above the water like floating branches of a dead tree. He could see the exact moment the first tear hit the surface, rippling it in symmetric circles. After that, it was all a blur.
Draco let himself cry. Cry because, somehow, he had become the boy that was capable of choosing a life over another. Crying because, despite the tears and the guilt, he knew he was still gonna do it.
Cry for a long time. Days and hours and seconds. Cry until he was certain he didn't have any more tears left in him and then cry some more.
When it was over he tipped his head backwards, under, and didn't come out until his lungs started burning and the water had gone cold.
Lupin was waiting for him in the corridor, hovering awkwardly, a bundle of clothes gripped in his hands like a safety blanket.
Draco, unapologetically clad in a single towel, stared at him and waited.
"Uhm. I'm sure you don't want to sleep in your school clothes, even with a cleaning charm and what not. . . But, well, I wasn't really prepared and these- these were Harry's" the other man sounded so uncomfortable that Draco almost laughed, as if anything about this fucked up situation was actually funny.
"Unless you prefer something of mine, of course." Lupin added, uncertain.
"Those would do." Draco said dismissively, because he really did not want to think too hard about that.
"Okay, then. This is your room." He gestured at the door in front of them, open enough that Draco could spot a gray wallpaper with a bird motif cutting it across the middle, like little white soldiers, silhouetted orderly on the battle line. Ready to fly any minute, now.
"Okay."
"Yeah. . . " Lupin lingered, as if trying to express something else with the silence. When it stretched almost too long, he pressed the bundle of clothes into Draco's arms and looked away. "Goodnight then, we'll talk tomorrow".
Draco didn't trust his voice and nodded, before darting into the room and slamming the door shut behind his back.
The towel slipped down his legs and for a long moment he stood stark naked against smooth wood, chest heaving spasmodically as if he had been running for miles.
Potter's clothes turned out to be a mismatched set, green t-shirt and navy sweat shorts. The cotton was used and almost threadbare in places, but it felt incredibly soft between his fingers. The t-shirt was baggy and too wide at the top, slipping off one of his shoulders, and wasn't that unfair when the shorts were just the right size around his narrow waist. Draco had only considered his lack of underwear for a second, before thinking that he was considering too much and pulling them up.
They felt comfortable enough and ,somehow, Draco fell asleep, hugged in worn cotton and guilt.
