The Hounds and the Peacocks
“Malfoy,” Harry said, dreaming. He reached out and touched Malfoy’s hair, golden in the light streaming in from the window.
“Jesus Christ,” Malfoy said, and he was real. Harry blinked.
“You’re real,” he said, and then, “I’m alive.”
“You bloody arsehole,” Malfoy told him, his voice breaking. “What were you playing at?”
“It was Sirius,” Harry said, and Malfoy caught his hand and held it tight.
“You can’t,” he said fiercely.
“Yeah.”
“You’re alive.”
“Yeah,” Harry said, and then the words came back to him all at once. “Here I am alive, and it’s not my fault, so I have to try and get by as best I can without hurting anybody until death takes over.”
Malfoy swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand and choked out half of a laugh. “Stop talking to Blaise, you pretentious twit.”
“Sorry,” Harry said.
Malfoy glared at him, but he was still sort of crying. “You’d better be.”
“I am.” He held Malfoy’s gaze.
“You can’t die in the Thames anyway,” Malfoy said, putting on an air. “It’s filthy. Let me take you to Paris, you can drown yourself in the Seine.”
“The Seine’s filthy too,” Harry told him.
“Well then, I guess you’ll just have to stay fucking alive.”
Harry’s breath hitched. The sun shifted, and Malfoy was illuminated even brighter somehow. Harry wanted to shield his eyes, but his hand was still clenched in Malfoy’s.
“Yeah, okay.”
“I’m serious, Potter.”
“Yeah.”
The hounds came into the peacock room with them and whined for Harry’s attention.
“Wait your turn,” he told them, and looked back at Malfoy. “How’d you find me, anyway?”
“You left your cloak on that stupid bridge,” Malfoy said. “Broke the Statute of Secrecy six ways to Sunday, Pansy’s still got one of the Ministry’s Howlers lying around somewhere. Arthur Weasley called me when they pulled you out.”
“It’s Christmas,” Harry remembered.
Malfoy shook his head. “It’s New Year’s now.”
“Happy New Year’s,” Harry said, and Malfoy smiled a bit.
The hounds were pacing now.
“I need something,” Harry said.
“Okay.” Malfoy went down the hall and came back with a few pills. When he walked in the room Harry noticed his shirt.
“You have blood.”
“It’s old,” Malfoy said, his gaze sliding away.
“Okay,” Harry said quietly, and Malfoy looked back at him.
They were silent for a moment, and then Harry sat up and banished the hounds.
Malfoy pulled the curtains shut. “You should sleep.”
“Yeah,” Harry said.
Malfoy turned to leave.
“Wait,” Harry said.
Malfoy looked at him again.
“Will you hold me?”
“Thank you for meeting me,” Harry said, and ran his fingers over his coffee cup.
“I don’t have long,” Hermione told him.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m sorry. For what I said to you.”
“I know, Harry.”
“I was—I don’t think that,” he said. “About you.”
“I know, Harry.”
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
“I know,” she repeated, weary. “I just don’t know if that’s enough.”
“Yeah,” Harry said.
“You’re still using, aren't you?” she said.
He looked down at his hands. “Yeah.”
She nodded and took a sip of tea, steeling herself. “I just can’t.”
“Yeah.” He had expected that, he told himself. There was nothing surprising about it.
“But, Harry,” she added, “you should know… I’m sorry too.”
“Just—tell Arthur I said thanks,” he told her. “And give my—my best to Ron.”
“Sure, Harry,” she said, and left the café.
He stayed for a few minutes, finishing his coffee.
Then he went back to the Manor, up the decrepit drive, into the golden gleam of the ballroom. He tipped a bit of powder onto the back of his hand, and inhaled it, and lay down on the rug, resting his head in Malfoy’s lap.