The Other Gang
When Harry voices moving out of The Burrow, the entire kitchen table comes to a grinding standstill.
A fork clatters, a bowl smashes, and Harry finds himself prickling under the shocked attention of six, seven, eight redheads, Hermione, and Fleur. He places his spoon back on the table and then carefully looks up. Molly appears to be the most stung.
“Harry,” she breathes, the only sound in the cramped Weasley dining room and isn’t that commendable? Harry wants to pat himself on the back; a loud, sharp, sarcastic one.
He stutters out that he doesn’t mean it in the bad way, just that he’d like to sort out Grimmauld Place as soon as possible. Since he’d be moving there sooner or later, he could divide his time accordingly. He explains how he needs to fix it up and Kreacher must be itching to return, too. The more he speaks, the deeper the frown is on Arthur’s face, and Molly has inched forward until she’s standing right behind him, one hand placed on his shoulder.
Harry had expected some resistance and he’s not disappointed. Molly insists that she doesn’t like the idea of him all alone in that big house, and that there’s no rush, and Arthur nods along, offering Harry a bedroom of his own if he doesn’t wish to share it with Ron, which only makes him feel like an utter piece of shit.
The entire conversation goes as well as can be expected, but Harry patiently sits through it, determined on his decision, reassuring Molly over and over that he’ll be fine in that big house all alone. Nearly an hour later, Harry escapes through the back door to get some fresh air.
He looks out over the sloping hills of Ottery St Catchpole. Not even six months ago, he was blasting through Luna’s cylindrical house after learning about the Deathly Hallows. Master of Death – Harry Potter. He wonders if they can locate the Resurrection Stone he had dropped in the Forest and then wonders whether he wants to locate it. If he had known that he wasn’t going to die … he may not have let go of it.
Although, it would have been similar to the Mirror of Erised all over again, wouldn’t it? Living in dreams, oblivious to the real world. He entertains it for a little bit – what he’d say to his parents, Sirius would have been ecstatic to learn Harry is moving in his house, Remus … Harry really needs to meet Teddy one of these days.
He thinks he’s the worst godfather Remus could have chosen, objectively speaking. There was no guarantee that he would have come out the other side of the war alive.
And suddenly, the sheer weight of it, of what it means to be the person who cast the final spell to defeat Riddle – his knees nearly buckle. This is why he avoids thinking, avoids feeling altogether, because if he lets it in, gives in, he has to feel his own death again, has to feel everyone’s deaths again.
“Harry?”
He turns. Hermione approaches him, arms crossed, shoulders hunched.
“Yeah?”
She blinks a few times, moves her gaze over his shoulders, and requests if she could stay with him until her birthday. Once she turns eighteen, she explains, she can move back in her parent’s house. Harry almost refuses – she shouldn’t be staying alone – and catches himself at the last moment. Neither should he, according to Molly, but Harry just needs space. Lots of it. He wants to stare at walls, not doing a single damn thing, not thinking, not feeling, numb to the point where he’d be bored out of his mind.
So Harry nods. “Of course.”
Hermione smiles, small and grateful and relieved. She doesn’t leave immediately, joins him, quiet, accompanying, present. Harry had never thanked her for sticking to his side all those months. He had done things for her, but never actually said the words. He adds it to the list of apologies he owes.
Over the next two weeks, they slog through more and more texts at the Manor’s library.
Harry is reading through a thick tome on Obliviate, Legilimency, and Hynotism: Guidebook Of The Mind Healers in one of the high-ceilinged Resting Room by himself on the ground floor. The space is filled with comfortable furniture having cushioned backs that mould to one’s spine rather deliciously. Narrow, high windows break the stone wall every four feet, filtering in most of the natural sunlight. Potted plants litter the solid gold tables generously.
Harry is seated in one of the armchair sets in front of a large window, feet up on the table, the book open in his lap.
The term Obliviate refers to the spell of forgetting. It is often used by Ministry officials on Muggles who witness magic in their vicinity as a means to safeguard the secrets of the magical community. Apart from that, the phenomenon can prove to be traumatic to some Muggles if they were to suddenly, say, notice a levitating object that should not be otherwise levitating. There have been occurrences in Muggles wherein accidental magic has fuelled events described as “Acts of God”.
A case study of Mr. Alex, 35, from Poline is one such example. Poline is the all-Muggle village near Hogsmeade, an entirely wizarding village. Despite Hogsmeade being protected under powerful concealment enchantments, the Ministry had become lax into renewing them for an entire week. When Mr. Alex had to travel for his work on foot, he could suddenly see the entire village that had not been there just the previous night. Naturally, he reported it to the Muggle law officers and the Ministry officials were only in time to prevent what would have been a rather embarrassing oversight.
The problem should have been resolved then and there. However, when Mr. Alex turned 60 years of age, he began talking about flying broomsticks and of a village that never existed as far as the Muggles were concerned. His family members admitted him to the psychiatric ward and the Muggle Mind Healers declared he is suffering from Schizophrenia (a psychological condition in which individuals experience psychosis, hallucinations, and disturbed speech among a set of other symptoms).
Mr. Alex passed away a few years later, still insisting that he had been telling the truth.
There have been various studies both in magical and Muggle communities, which exhibit that forgotten memories are never truly forgotten, but merely repressed. It is similar to how an adult would suddenly remember events from when they were five years old; sometimes, the memories are shockingly clear, other times they have a dream-like filter.
Specially trained Mind Healers utilise this fascinating function of the human brain in treating individuals who have repressed certain traumatic experiences in their life with the use of precise Legilimency. This technique is performed with full understanding of the risks and official consent of the client. It is similar to the Muggle technique of Hypnotism, in which the Muggle Mind Healerputs the client in a disassociated stupor in a controlled environment to bring memories to the forefront…
At that moment, Harry’s attention is caught by a movement in the corner of the eyes. A white peacock is strutting outside the window, tail fanned out in all its glory. Harry shuts the book and clambers up, pressing his nose against the window.
The peacock is alone between the trails of wildflowers lining a small cobbled pathway that leads to the back property. It’s bent down to peck at the ground, feet tracing a random pattern. Harry watches it for a while. This is the first time he’s come across it. He had truly believed that Draco had freed them or put them elsewhere outside of the Manor.
But here it is, right in front of Harry, oblivious to his scrutiny. So Harry opens the latch on the window, carefully pulling the lowest pane up without a sound. Slowly, he climbs up the sill, sliding feet-first over the ledge, dropping down on the soft grass. He crouches with bated breath, waiting to see if the peacock has noticed him yet.
When it becomes clear that it hasn’t, Harry starts to crawl on his knees and palms to take a closer look. It’s actually beautiful, entirely white with black eyes. The feathers look soft to the touch, thin and wispy, delicate.
He reaches the lining of the wildflowers on one side of the path, almost flattening on the grass to avoid being seen. He’s not even breathing at this point, focused on the serene peacock as it makes its way in search of stray worms and insects, sometimes tugging at the petals.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Harry jumps, the peacock squawks indignantly, practically running on the twisting path before taking a leap and floating away.
Draco seems unaffected under Harry’s vicious glare. He watches dryly as Harry rises to his feet, dusting off the soil and the dirt from his pants, not even bothering to form a response.
“I think I found something,” Harry says instead.
“Yes, one of my Father’s prized possession.”
“Ha ha.”
Draco cracks a smirk. “It’ll have to wait. Weasley and Granger took off.”
Harry pauses mid-stride. “What? Without me?”
Draco stares for a beat, mouth apart, as if wanting to break the rather delicate news of yours parents are getting divorced to a young, impressionable child.
Harry shakes his head, beating him. “Whatever. Where did they go? Are they going to come back?”
Draco is eyeing him so carefully still that Harry wants to punch him. He knows Draco is being deliberate with his expressions, all in the Ultimate Mission of riling Harry up for no fucking reason other than personal entertainment.
“They might,” Draco draws out slowly.
Once they start making their way back inside through the longer route, the actual route, he explains in a normal tone. “Granger wanted to place some charms on her house now that the neighbour knows what to look for. She said they might call the pohleece?”
“Police,” Harry corrects automatically. “Shit, yeah. That makes sense.”
“What will do you now?” Draco asks casually.
“Er.”
“But, but,” Draco splutters incredulously, “that’s what you always do!”
Harry laughs, swiping an arm out to whack him on the head but Draco deftly ducks, taking a step away, grinning oh-so-pleased with himself. They climb up the front steps dodging each other’s punches and into the large foyer where a house-elf appears with a loud, echoing pop. Harry squints down at the creature; he could be Sobby.
“Master Draco,” the elf squeaks out, bowing. “May Soopey serve lunch to Master Draco and Harry Potter?”
Soopey, right. That’s what he meant. It’s not his bloody fault there are about twenty different house-elves in this stupidly large castle; at least he’s seen twenty until now. There could be more. The first time Hermione had broached the subject with Draco, she nearly had a heart-attack, demanding why he needs so many, that he should free all of them, or he should at least pay them. Naturally, Draco had supremely ignored her.
Draco tells the elf to serve it in the dining room this time, rather than the library as is their usual routine. Once Harry takes a seat at the table, Draco goes around the table to the chimney in the back. He throws some Floo powder in the crate and sticks his head in.
“Blaise? Blaise, you shagging twat–”
“Yes, Draco dear?”
“Lunch is on me. Come over in five minutes. I still have to call Dean.”
“I’d be honoured, you beautiful cocksucker.”
Draco shows him the middle finger before pulling out. When he calls Dean, though, he’s more sophisticated. Maybe it’s only because Mrs. Thomas answers him.
“Ah, Draco! Here for Dean, I presume?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Draco says after an awkward pause. “Is he home?”
“He’s out in the backyard with Jamie. Give me a moment, I’ll call him.”
When Dean’s voice floats through after a few minutes, he sounds winded. “Draco, hey. What’s up?”
“Hey, Jamie,” Draco greets. “Kicking his ass again, I hope?”
Jamie turns out to be one of Dean’s step-sisters. She lets out a trilling laugh, which is actually rather pretty. “Always. You wanna join for a game?”
“Not today,” Draco says, sounding genuinely apologetic. “I have a friend over.”
Jamie sighs heavily. “You always say that. I swear you’re starting to feel like one of those ghosts who haunt the fireplace.”
Draco snorts. “You want to join us for lunch?”
“Not even one bit,” Jamie replies instantly. “No offense, but your place gives me the creeps.”
“You just don’t know how to appreciate fine cutlery,” Draco counters smoothly. “Dean?”
Dean refuses, too, saying he needs to win at least one game against Jamie by the evening. So Draco leaves them to it and straightens up. Blaise steps out of the chimney just as Draco takes his seat beside Harry. He’s wearing a black shirt tucked neatly in his equally black trousers.
“Oh, Potter. It’s you.”
Harry watches as Blaise settles himself across the table. “Hi?”
Blaise smirks, a small tilt of his lips. “Hello.”
Draco flaps open the napkin and folds the edges in his collar. Blaise is doing the same so Harry hastily joins in. Polished cutlery appears on the table, complete with different types of forks and knives and goblets. Blaise examines his reflection in one of the shinier spoons, adjusting his hair just so, and Draco flings the fork at him with a tiny flick of his wrist, but Blaise bats it away with the spoon as if he had expected it.
“Norwegian?” Blaise guesses when heaps of food materialise in front of them.
Draco nods, scooping out a ladle of soup into his bowl. He passes it to Harry and Harry eyes it, not entirely sure if the floating bits would suit his taste buds. He takes it anyway, a small tentative portion, and follows Draco’s lead of dunking in the brown nutty bread in it. On the other hand, Blaise gathers the liquid into a prawn shell and munches on it with a thoughtful hum.
At one point, Blaise is telling Draco about how he plans to return for his last year at the school.
“What about you?” he asks casually. “You barely attended yourself.”
Draco is buying time by twisting his fork carefully in the unending strands of noodles. He bites on it, chewing slowly, and Blaise shakes his head, sighing, resigned.
“Potter?”
Harry snorts. “Definitely not.”
Blaise changes the subject to Diagon Alley. He visited it last evening to restock some home supplies. The shops are opening, he says.
“Not all of them,” he admits. “Business went down the gutter last year so people had to sell their shops. I think the new Minister plans on setting up a fund, although I doubt the Ministry is trustworthy at this point.”
“Kingsley is a good man,” Harry states coldly, fingers freezing on his spoon.
Blaise raises his eyebrows. “I’m sure he is. But do you blame the population for being at least a little bit distrustful after the stints under delusional Fudge, then Scrimgeour who couldn’t handle shit, then Thickenesse?”
Harry clenches his jaw. “Kingsley is not like them.”
Blaise’s lips thin. “I’m glad you retain your faith. Tell that to the entire wizarding world. Oh wait, you don’t wish to be seen in public at all.”
“Blaise,” Draco snaps. “You know–”
“I know, but–”
“There’s no but–”
“Draco,” Blaise drops his voice, and somehow manages to sound angrier. Draco glares, mouth snapping shut. “I know that you need time, but Potter can’t sit inside the safety of your house and educate on how people outside should be feeling.”
“That’s not what I’m doing,” Harry defends angrily. “If anyone knows how bad the Ministry was, it’s me. Or have you forgotten that?”
Blaise pins him on the spot with a hard stare. “I’m not undermining your struggle, Potter. I get that you’re the hero of this adventurous story, and I’m grateful that you won. But people are still adjusting the same way you are. The last time they believed You-Know-Who was dead, he returned fourteen years later. Or have you forgotten that?”
“He’s truly dead this time,” Harry says forcefully. “Trust me.”
“I do,” Blaise says, leaning forward. “Care to share that with the rest of the world?”
Harry swallows.
Lunch after that is slightly tense, but somehow Blaise also manages to direct it towards light-hearted topics. He leaves Harry alone to brood and eat in silence, and keeps Draco occupied with more trivial news such as Magical Menagerie has a new collection or that Mother’s latest conquest is an utter arsehole and how Blaise is planning to move to his Irish villa they inherited from Husband Number Three after Halloween.
“–probably continue with same subjects–”
“I’ve done enough.”
Blaise stops talking and turns to Harry dubiously. “Excuse me?”
Harry grits his teeth. “I’ve done more than enough, actually,” he says. “I’ve killed the villain in the adventurous story. I don’t give a shit about how you decide to deal with it. I’m not some fucking public property. My life is my own now, and I’m going to sit inside the safety of Draco’s house if it fucking pleases me.”
Draco lets out an undignified snort, not even bothering to hide it.
Blaise takes a few seconds to process it, but then he’s making a spectacle of bowing his head, waving his hand as if Harry is royalty. “As you wish.”
Harry grudgingly cracks a smirk.
After lunch, Blaise insists on tasting a few of the aged wines from the cellar.
Draco seems more than eager to do it and Harry doesn’t really have an opinion on the matter, so he follows the two down to the clammy room. The bottles are all in pristine condition as if one of the house-elves cleans it every single day on the mere possibility that Draco might personally make a visit to choose a bottle. Or maybe the elves just need a little bit of mind-numbing scrubbing activities to pass the time.
Whatever the case, Blaise turns out to be the most knowledgeable in alcohol; Draco only knows the few that were frequent at the dinner table and Harry has practically negligible information or opinion on the matter. When prompted, all he says is that Butterbeer is sorta tasty and Firewhisky feels warm. Blaise promptly launches into a long rant that could rival Hermione’s S.P.E.W. propaganda regarding the differences between wines and whisky and gin and rum and scotch and Harry becomes fascinated with a blank spot on the wall.
He stumbles when Draco abruptly shoves at him. Blaise has finally decided upon a bottle.
They settle in the Sunset Room. Blaise tops their glasses, raises his in a silent Salut and Harry dutifully clinks them together.
Harry takes a tentative sip and feels the burn almost immediately. Resolutely not coughing, he swallows it down, eyes watering a little. Draco notices, grinning, and grey shining silver themselves.
Halfway through their first glass, Harry has a distinct thought that Blaise Zabini is a godsend. When Harry tells him so, Draco chokes, and Blaise seems entirely unsurprised.
“I know,” he assures Harry soothingly.
Harry nods. “Good. You don’t seem very Slytherin to me, either.”
Draco tries to grab Harry’s glass so Harry holds it near his chest possessively.
“Don’t let him fool you,” Draco says, settling back. He doesn’t seem very determined to steal Harry’s drink after such a half-hearted attempt. “He’s the most Slytherin to ever Slytherin.”
Harry squints at him through the orange glow of the sun. “I thought Mrs. Zabini was the most Slytherinest Slytherining Slytherin.”
“In our generation,” Draco adds sagely. He takes a deep gulp, almost emptying his glass. He’s stopped wincing three to four sips ago.
Harry turns to Blaise, seeing him in a completely new light. Blaise is mirroring their position of feet-up-on-the-table, sagged in the lovely cushions, one arm dangling over the armrest to hold the wine away from their clothes. Upon Harry’s inspection, Blaise throws him a wink.
Harry chuckles. “Draco winked at me once,” he tells Blaise. “That’s why I’m here today.”
“Really?” Blaise drawls out, as if they are discussing what a nice summer evening it is and not the fact that Draco saved Harry’s life. “He winked at me a lot, too. That’s why I’m here today.”
“Really?” Harry perks up, straightening up a little. “Gin said you both dated. Is that why he winked at you a lot?”
Draco chokes for the second time and Blaise lets out a deep, barking laughter. The wine sloshes around in the glass and some of it spills onto the soft, expensive-looking light blue rug. Horrified, Harry quickly points his wand at it, arm swaying a little and yells SCOURGIFY!
The stain disappears and Harry’s heart rate calms down slightly. He likes the light blue rug.
“What else did Ginevra say?” Blaise asks between fits of snickers. “I assure you, Draco and I never dated.”
“Oh.”
Harry’s face feels warm, hot, blazing. He tips the bottle over his glass to refill it. He doesn’t pour enough of it due to sheer anxiety of ruining the light blue rug again, and then pours so much that Draco swipes an arm out to straighten the bottle at the last minute.
“Can you imagine, Draco?” Blaise continues, still huffing. “Pansy would have murdered me in my sleep, for starters.”
“Absolutely, she would have,” Draco agrees whole-heartedly, filling his own glass now. Blaise leans forward so Draco tops his, too. “Not to mention, Mrs. Zabini would have gotten a heart attack if her only son brought in another bloke home.”
“Mrs. Zabini is homophobic?” Harry says in shock. He doesn’t understand why it surprises him so much, he doesn’t even know the woman, but Harry had pictured her as a very liberal, open-minded, progressive sort of lady for reasons unknown to him.
“All pure-bloods are,” Blaise informs him matter-of-factly. After a pregnant pause, he adds, “I suppose, not all of them. Most of them are. You can’t exactly produce an heir if you cannot biologically have children with your partner.”
“Maybe St. Mungo’s will come up with a spell to fix that,” Harry offers helpfully. “Then pure-bloods can be gay, too.”
Draco falls off his chair, spilling wine all over the rug and Harry shoots up, frantically shouting SCOURGIFY so many times that a house-elf (Tolky or Zaddy?) appears in their midst to snap his fingers; the stain instantly clears off, and the blue rug is saved for the second time that evening. Harry thanks the house-elf sincerely, offering a drink in gratitude, but the house-elf swells in offense and Disapparates with a loud crack.
“No offense, Potter,” Blaise says once Draco is back in his seat. “But I don’t exactly wish to go through the pains of pregnancy and labour.”
“Me, neither,” Draco adds.
“Me, neither,” Harry shrugs. “I’m just saying. If someone wants to, I think men should have that option. Isn’t it unfair that we just don’t?”
Suddenly, Harry wishes Ron were here. He would get it. So Harry conjures up his Patronus to send a message. Satisfied, he watches the sun setting in the horizon, calmness coursing through his blood.
“I wouldn’t even want to go through the menstrual cycles,” Draco shudders violently, “let alone the main deal.”
Blaise’s face darkens. “I’m still having nightmares about Milli threatening to skin Theo when he made that comment – you remember?”
“Fuck, yes,” Draco says, grimacing. “Cramps can’t be that bad.”
“Oh, no,” Harry breathes, eyes bulging. “He didn’t.”
Blaise nods solemnly. “He did.”
A miserable silence stretches out in which they’re just being thankful they were neither Millie nor Theo, and Harry tells them about the first time Ron made the mistake of pointing out that Hermione already had dinner when she was complaining about toffee cravings at midnight in the Common Room. Ron had borrowed Harry’s Cloak to sneak into the Honeydukes cellar the next day and sheepishly gave the bag of toffees to Hermione as a form of apology.
Just then, Hermione's otter materialises near Harry’s feet, speaking in Ron's voice.
“Speak of the devil,” Draco mutters under his breath.
“I hear you, mate. Although, I think if men ever become pregnant, we would just bitch and moan the whole time. The world is better off with women handling it.”
“He is right,” Blaise remarks.
“Men are utter trash,” Draco agrees. “I think my mother would have easily found someone better.”
“My Dad was a bully,” Harry confesses shamefully. “Sirius said he changed later, that they were only fifteen at that time. But Mum seemed much more level-headed, you know? Even if she was fifteen, too.”
“I was a bully when I was fifteen, too,” Draco tells them sombrely.
“We know,” Blaise reassures him.
“Mum still loved Dad,” Harry says soothingly. “Eventually.”
“That’s why the Queen is a Queen,” Draco says, raising his glass to the fullest height. “To the Queen!”
“To the Queen!” Harry and Blaise parrot dutifully before taking deep sips.
Ron and Hermione don’t return to the Manor. Blaise bids them good night, stumbling in the chimney, promising Draco he’d be over soon again to raid more of the cellar.
Then it’s just Harry and him, and Draco asks if he intends to stay for dinner.
“No,” Harry says honestly. Draco blinks back. “We could go flying.”
Draco suddenly straightens up, appearing much more alive. “We’re drunk,” he points out.
“So?”
And he laughs, shaking his head, muttering what was I expecting, really?
“Is that a yes?” Harry asks hopefully. He hasn’t touched a broomstick since he defeated Riddle. He sort of wants to fly really bad right this second. If Draco refuses, he’ll Floo to The Burrow to grab his Firebolt–
“We can visit Luna and I’ll drop you off at Weasleys.”
Harry grins.
Minnie brings them a single broomstick.
“Last of the Moontrimmers,” Draco says smugly, taking the handle almost reverently. “Can fly higher than any broom in history even today.”
Harry asks to go first. Draco’s expression falls. He stares blankly, doesn’t move a muscle.
“I’m the Master of the Elder Wand,” Harry reminds him. “And Saviour of Wizarding World. I should go first.”
Draco narrows his eyes to slits. “I’m the Dragon Rider. And this is my broom.”
“You’ll be riding it back all on your own,” Harry points out.
Draco’s fingers tighten on the wood. “We’ll take turns.”
“You’ll still be riding one and a half of the journey.”
“So?”
“This was my idea.”
“Which you wouldn’t have been able to execute without my resources.”
Harry has to give him that. It doesn’t mean he has to admit it. “Your resources would not have been used without my idea.”
Then, a tentative voice says, “Minnie can bring another broom–”
“No,” both Harry and Draco refuse instantly.
“Highest flying broom, Minnie,” Draco tells her as if it explains everything, which it sort of does.
Minnie nods in acceptance. “Master only has one of these.”
“Exactly,” Draco agrees. “Tell Harry he can’t ride it.”
“Hey!” Harry puffs up. “Fine. Half a journey. Whatever. Cheating git.”
Minnie lets them to it. Draco says they should fly from one of the hanging balconies. Harry shrugs, following him to the fourth floor through a maze of corridors, shuffling his feet, relishing in the buzz in his head.
Draco lets Harry take the first turn, at the very least. He waves his wand in the hand more dramatically than is required for a simple Point Me, swings his legs on the broom behind Harry, gripping his shirt securely.
Harry kicks off.
Immediately, his head clears. The cool summer air gives him a sudden clarity. Half-buried under the joy of flying is the acute awareness that Draco’s thighs are pressed around his hips, his chest against Harry’s back, and the last time they had been in this position was when they had charged head-on to face Voldemort.
Harry shakes it off, focusing on the now. The Manor is shrinking beneath him, smaller and smaller, but Harry gets a complete view of how vast the surrounding property truly is. He notices a large stable, the blooming rose fields, two sleeping albino peacocks in a far corner, empty grass expanses, a broomshed, two outdoor shacks, the cobbled path winding through them all.
Above him, the sky is clear and littered with stars, a crescent moon hanging in the distance. It’s quiet, hushed, and Harry breathes it in, savouring the fact that he’s alive, flying just for the sake of it, rather than catching the Snitch before Draco does, or running away from noseless men gunning for his life.
Draco’s presence behind him is warm, comforting, reassuring. Harry doesn’t know when they went from merely tolerating each other to having each other’s backs through all the shitfuck but he’s not complaining. Draco has literally opened up his house to Harry, just letting him loose to do whatever he wants. He thinks it might be because the Manor can feel lonely, too big for just one person, but too emotionally tied up to really leave behind.
The world below is shrinking quicker now as Harry lifts up the front of the broom, shooting upward. Draco’s fingers tighten at the abrupt burst of speed, and then he’s laughing and cursing Harry at the same time, and Harry grins, aiming for the moon.
“We should have brought extra sweaters,” Harry says as a curious nightingale flutters around them.
“Merlin, Harry,” Draco huffs and then murmurs a soft incantation. Hot air blasts from the tip of his wand and Harry hums in relief.
“Try it with my wand.”
Draco makes an amused noise in the back of his throat but does so accordingly. He draws out Harry’s wand that is stuffed in his denim pockets and waves it.
“Not so different,” Harry remarks.
“Because it doesn’t belong to me,” Draco reminds him. “You do it.”
“Hold the broom,” Harry warns, immediately letting go.
The broom dips down a good ten feet before Draco winds his arms around Harry to grapple desperately at the wood. Harry, unaffected by the whole thing, is busy experimenting whether the Hot Air Charm is Hotter Air Charm with the Elder Wand.
Turns out, it is.
“We’re going to use your wand for everything,” Draco declares, setting a steady pace.
Harry lets his feet dangle loosely now that Draco seems to have a handle over things, waving his wand considerably over his flying companion as well.
After he’s done, he shoves the wand in Draco’s fingers, taking control of the broom once more. Draco shifts slightly to regain some amount of comfort, pulling his hands back to return to clutching Harry’s shirt.
“What were you saying earlier in the afternoon?” Draco asks when they’re crossing over patchy fields of light and dark shades, too far to really know the colours of.
“When?”
“You said you found something.”
Harry outlines what he remembers from the book, about the Muggle man who regained his memories over time despite the Obliviate.
“Repressed, huh?” Draco says thoughtfully, fingers drumming a random tune on Harry’s sides. “If we send a Mind Healer disguised as a Muggle Healer–”
“They have no reason to approach a doctor–”
“They don’t need to approach–”
“You mean if we sneak in a Mind Healer to perform unconsented magic on them?”
Draco tugs at his shirt in reprimand. “Yes, the way Granger performed unconsented magic on them.”
“It was to protect them, Draco–”
“This is to reverse the damage–”
“They’re not damaged–”
“Harry. They don’t know who the fuck they are. I know Granger did it to keep them away from the war, but you have to admit that it’s a little twisted. She didn’t even give them a choice–”
“What if they had stayed and ended up getting tortured for information?”
“Then it would have been their choice. Look, I’m not undermining what she did, okay? It takes a fucking lot to make your own parents forget you even exist. Trust me, I understand it more than I can say at this point. But it is damage that we need to reverse. Their entire life is just gone.”
Harry breathes in, out, in, out.
“I know,” he says, jaw clenching. “I can’t think of it that way, though. I just can’t. If Hermione never gets them back, it’s two more people we’ve lost because of me.”
There’s a brief pause and then one hand lets go of Harry’s shirt, the other tightens painfully.
“What the fuck?” Draco demands angrily. Harry twists his neck a little and Draco’s silver eyes are hard, narrowed, furious. “Are you shitting me? Is this turning into a Pity Potter Party? This has nothing to do with you, you shithead. This is what I mean by choice. Granger made choices, sure I don’t agree with them but she chose it. If she loses her parents, it has nothing to do with you. Look at the front, you’re going in the wrong direction.”
Draco performs another Point Me and Harry steers the broom. Once they’re set on the right course, he gathers enough thoughts to voice them without losing his temper.
“But she did it for me, didn’t she? She came with me to hunt down Horcruxes–”
“So?”
“If I hadn’t decided to go off, then she wouldn’t have needed to–”
“You didn’t kill my parents, Harry,” Draco interrupts in a steely voice. “And I’ve realised that I didn’t kill them, either. We could go in circles all night and trace back who did what to figure out whom to blame, but what’s the point?”
Harry realises he has no answer to that. What’s the point? He doesn’t know. Just knows that Hermione sacrificed her parents for him, and if this doesn’t work, he’s going to stew in the guilt forever, no matter what anyone says.
It takes them one and half-hour to reach Ottery St Catchpole.
Draco doesn’t ask Harry to make a pit-stop so that he can ride the broom as per their agreement. In fact, Draco doesn’t say anything at all after their conversation and neither does Harry. The tension gives way to excitement, however, as soon as Luna’s cylindrical house makes an appearance. In the distance, The Burrow is dark and quiet; only one window lit up that Harry recognizes as Molly and Arthur’s bedroom.
“Mr. Lovegood rebuilt it,” Harry exclaims in pleasant surprise.
“What?” Draco asks in confusion.
“Hermione had to orchestrate an explosion to get us out,” Harry explains. “When Luna was captured – we didn’t know it at the time – but we paid a visit and Mr. Lovegood tried to sell us out to the Death Eaters so that they’ll let Luna go.”
Draco freezes behind his back. “That was true? I’d heard that some of them thought they sighted you in that house but you managed to escape. No one really believed the story. Why would you visit him, though?”
And Harry has the gut-wrenching realisation that Draco probably does not know about the Quest of the Deathly Hallows, but has only heard about the Elder Wand.
“Er – long story. Look, here we are.”
Harry nosedives and Draco slides forward. They silently land in the front yard of the Lovegood residence. Draco clambers off, stretching his back succinctly, hands raised above his head so that a sliver of pale skin gleams under the moonlight.
Harry places the broomstick carefully on the railing of the fence.
“I’ll call her,” Draco announces, already bounding up the stairs to knock loudly on the door.
On a whim, Harry hides. He take a couple of hasty steps around the circular wall so that Mr. Lovegood would not see him. He feels like a naughty kid who has done something he shouldn’t have, and is now afraid his friend’s parents are going to find out and demand they stop being friends.
“Draco! This is – a surprise.”
“Good evening, Mr. Lovegood,” Draco greets politely. “Is Luna awake? I was passing through the village and thought to drop by.”
“She’s in her room. Why don’t you come inside?”
“No, no. I’ll wait by the gate.”
Mr. Lovegood doesn’t insist. Draco climbs back down, frowns, searching around himself, and Harry waves him over with a hissing noise, beckoning him in his hiding spot. Draco rolls his eyes before striding forward.
“Seriously?”
Luna hops down about five minutes later. Somehow, she comes straight to the hiding spot without breaking her stride as if she knew all along that that is where Draco would be.
She is thoroughly nonplussed by Harry’s presence, giving each of them a quick hug. Her long hair is tied in a knot above her head and she’s wearing garish purple pyjamas decorated with white owls.
Draco says he likes the owls so Luna offers buying him a matching pair. “It’s this lovely little quaint shop in Sherringford. They also sell those Mince Pies you enjoyed.”
Harry doesn’t have much to add to the conversation. He’s content to settle against the black wall and let both of them discuss the wine they tried earlier, how Jamie is kicking Dean’s ass, and how Luna visited Hogwarts today and bumped into Neville helping out Professor Sprouts with the destroyed greenhouses.
“He wants to apply for an apprenticeship,” Luna says. “I think he would make a wonderful teacher.”
Draco soon calls it a day when Luna yawns for the third time in just as many minutes. Sheepishly smiling, she bids them goodnight and thanks for dropping by. Apparently, this is not the first time Draco did this.
“I don’t have a Floo set up and my Apparition test never came around,” she explains to Harry. “I always have to ask Draco to come fetch me. Sometimes, he decides to fly. I assume it must be suffocating being cooped up at the Manor for days on end.”
“Er – right,” Harry says, throwing a curious glance in Draco’s direction.
“Oh, and Draco mentioned you cooked a meal for him, Harry!” Luna beams. “It’s very sweet of you.”
“I’ll cook something for you, too,” Harry offers.
Luna appears to very touched by it. Harry endures another round of sincere compliments before Draco pushes her to sleep. Once she’s gone, Draco is quick to grab the broomstick this time around. Harry sighs, climbing behind him with a small, petulant huff.
Draco kicks off the sloping hill, but does not rise. Instead, he skims their toes across the blades of grass and Harry almost hisses at him that someone might notice them before remembering that it’s a magical village.
Draco glides along the hills all the way to The Burrow’s front yard.
“Thanks for the ride,” Harry grins, swinging his leg off.
Draco smirks. “Whatever.”
Harry raises his eyebrows. “Come inside for a cup of tea. You can just Floo back, you know.”
“And miss the whole point of flying here?”
“It’s a long way, Draco–”
“I’m aware–”
Harry takes in his windswept hair, pink spots high on his cheeks, lips chapped in the cold air despite the Hotter Air Charm.
“Just come inside.”
“I’m perfectly fine, Harry–”
Harry throws all caution to the wind and grabs Draco’s wrist, tugging it vehemently. Draco loses his balance, slipping off the broom, and Harry takes advantage by swiping it from between his lax palms.
“Hey!”
Harry ignores it. He clutches the broom in one hand, and pulls Draco towards the house with the other. “You’re going to freeze to death and might actually become Jamie’s ghost in the fireplace.”
Draco puts up a struggle all the way to the door. When Harry leads him inside to the living room, he suddenly shuts up to avoid making any noise. The house is dark and silent and both of them creep on soft steps towards the kitchen. Harry manhandles him into a chair at the table.
“You’re a fucking menace,” Draco hisses at him, attempting to get up.
Harry pushes him down again. “Just sit for one bloody minute–”
“If we’re being so quiet, how the fuck do you expect me to Floo? If it has escaped your chopped intellectual abilities, the Floo does not work if you whisper at it!”
Harry had, in fact, not thought of that. “Then Apparate to the Manor or something. After warming up.”
Draco grumbles a string of complaints the entire time that it takes for Harry to boil water and locate the packets of tea flavours. He finds a few stashed under a tin and reads the label. Lemon. Well, it’ll have to do for now.
Harry places the steaming cups on the table and sits across Draco. Draco glares at him, grudgingly taking a sip, and then nearly melts, eyes fluttering shut.
Harry snorts, pointedly drinking his own hot tea. Blissful warmth courses down his throat, singing along his numb skin and heating him up from the inside out. They finish the tea in silence, their occasional sighs the only sounds in the otherwise silent kitchen.
Draco ends up flying a good distance from The Burrow to Apparate, not wanting the sound to alert anyone. Harry stands by the gate to bid him good night, watching his back until Draco’s form disappears around another hill of Ottery St Catchpole.
Master of Death – Harry Potter.
He snorts, thinking there are certain perks of Hotter Air Charm, after all.