The Sunset
There are Good Days and then there are Bad Days.
Harry wakes up at The Burrow to the crowing roosters, to warm sunlight streaming through the curtains, to Ron already mid-speech about something or the other, Hermione humming absently as she pours over a thick book in the corner.
Harry yawns, rubbing at his eyes, Summons his glasses just because he can – a habit he developed after losing the Trace.
“…one year programme. There’s a bit of written tests, but most of it is practical,” Ron is saying. He throws Pig in Harry’s direction like a ball and Harry catches the bird on mere reflex. Pig hoots happily so Harry and Ron yo-yo him between them. “You’ll finish school by then,” Ron adds to Hermione.
Hermione manages to snort in amusement at the tossing bird, flicking a page in the book. “I still believe you both should complete your education and earn your place in the Auror Department.”
“We defeated Voldemort,” Harry says through another huge, jaw-snapping yawn. “That counts for like fifty O’s alone in DADA, even at NEWT level.”
Ron nods in agreement. Pig whistles cheerfully as he is flung back towards Harry.
“Well, what about Herbology?” Hermione demands sceptically. “Potions? Charms? Transfiguration?”
“I think I learned enough Charms when you stung my face that one time,” Harry says to her.
Ron guffaws; he misses catching Pig, who hurtles right over his head and flaps his wings frantically before he can plaster on the wall. Hermione shoots them both a dirty look.
“Anyhow,” she says superiorly, “I want to do it the right way.”
“Hermione,” Ron says to her in an incredulous tone. “You do realise that no one will care about your NEWT levels or even call you for interview, right? They’ll read your name and the job will be yours.”
Despite the frown on her face, Hermione blushes at the compliment.
“The applications are opening in August,” Ron informs Harry, finally throwing Pig out the window when the owl pecks his fingers. He slides out of the blanket and walks over to Hermione, placing a kiss on top of her head. “We should probably start brushing up a bit,” he adds to Harry.
Harry’s heart hammers anxiously. “About that,” he says before he loses his courage. Ron pauses with his hand on the doorknob, craning around to look questioningly at Harry over his shoulder. “I might not.”
Even Hermione stops reading her book, narrowing her stare as though Harry is an interesting specimen she’s encountering in a Care of Magical Creatures class.
“Huh?” Ron says, mouth-slacked. “You don’t want to join the programme?”
Harry shakes his head silently.
Ron takes a few moments to process this. Pig starts pecking on the windowsill but everyone ignores him. Finally, Ron nods, a slow and uncertain nod, and then heaves a big sigh.
“Might as well,” he says. Sheepishly, he scratches the back of his neck. “But – uh – I still might, so…”
“That’s great!” Harry says quickly, kneeling on the mattress. He hopes he sounds as genuine as he feels. “You’d be a great Auror, Ron!”
“Thanks,” Ron mutters, staring at his socked feet, a dash of red running across his long nose.
Without Fred and George’s constant presence, it falls down to Harry, Ron, and Ginny to degnome the gardens while Hermione takes cooking lessons from a delighted Molly in preparation for her Big Move. Ron tries to sidle inside from time to time, insisting that he’s there for moral support but Hermione hisses him out the doors quickly enough. Harry can’t contain his laughter at Ron’s chastised expression, knowing that Hermione is punishing him for all the days he complained about food on the road. Harry doesn’t blame her.
“I really was there for moral support,” Ron grumbles unhappily, rooting up a rather stubborn gnome by the wall.
Ginny tosses the struggling gnome in her hand the way she achieves Quidditch goals. “It’s hardly moral support if you stand over her shoulder the whole time, less salt in that, maybe thinner strips of the bacon, why don’t you make it greasier?”
Harry gives him a meaningful look. “Time to crack open the book.”
Later in the evening, Harry overhears Ron complimenting Hermione on her very first mashed potatoes, “This is absolutely amazing, ‘Mione! You’d give Fleur a run for her galleons.”
Hermione beams at him, scooping out bigger portions, and Ron moans dramatically through every spoonful. He only stops when Ginny aims a kick at him under the table. Harry mouths don’t overdo it.
When Harry convinces them to play football, Fred and George disappear for a good half an hour only to return with a basketball. Hermione fashions two hoops to levitate out of the spare fishnets Ron dug from the broomshed, and Harry tries to remember the rules to the best of his capacity.
Experimentally, he dribbles the ball on the uneven muddy ground and nearly breaks his nose a few times when the ball bounces haphazardly.
They break apart into two teams; Harry, Ron, Fred, Ginny versus Hermione, Bill, George, and Fleur. Turns out, Bill being the tallest and Fleur being a distracting quarter-Veela really aids in their spectacular win. Naturally, they split them apart and then Harry is trying to pass the ball to a fumbling George who ends up levitating it through the hoop.
Percy declares Fleur’s team as winners on pure principle.
Ginny drops down beside him after the game in the cooling sun. Her long red hair is tied in a high ponytail, stark freckles smattering across her nose, and she’s looking at Harry the way she had done in the Room of Requirement: still beautiful, still perfect, searching, searching, searching.
Harry turns to watch the rest of the Weasleys. Bill and Ron are sprawled on the sparse grass, laughing. Hermione is passionately discussing S.P.E.W’s future with Percy under the tree. Fred and George have already left to tend to the evening rush. Fleur has Flooed to Andromeda for her regular dose of Teddy.
Ginny sighs. “I think we should talk about it.”
Ron lets out another bark of laughter, rolling on his side. Harry lets the sound wash over him, feeling so content at the moment, being here outside The Burrow, that he almost forgets why he insisted on moving to Grimmauld Place at all. “About what?”
When Ginny speaks next, she sounds determined, no non-sense and all business. “Before you left, you didn’t seem to be in the headspace to talk about future.”
Harry nods, gaze flicking to Hermione. Wanting to keep her in view just as much. Hermione has entered the phase of Wild Hand Gestures And Hair Flying. “I didn’t think I would make it. None of us did, really.”
“But you made it.”
Harry smiles. “We made it.”
Ginny shuffles closer, bumping their shoulders together. Harry lets the physical contact comfort him, put him at ease the way it always did. Ginny’s fierce embraces were one of the things Harry had looked forward to after days of ridicule and torment. But right now, this feels enough. This barely-there touch is satisfying.
“And now?” she asks.
Finally, Harry glances at her. She’s staring right at him. It makes him nervous, all of sudden, because he realises Ginny wants to talk about it. Talk about the future. Harry’s future, her future – their future.
He can’t blame her, if he’s being completely honest. Their relationship had been perfect. Harry can find no reasonable explanation for why that would change now.
“You’re not returning to school,” she begins when Harry is quiet for too long. “You’re not going to join the Auror programme, either.”
“No,” Harry agrees. “I’m not.”
When it becomes clear that Ginny is not in the mood to let him off the hook, Harry heaves a messy sigh, hands tugging at his hair in a force of habit. A restlessness dawns over him. As if the giant squid has wrapped its tentacles around him and he just doesn’t know what to do about it. How to shake it off.
“I try not to think about it,” Harry confesses. Shame and guilt and misery coil together, gliding across his cooling skin. He wants to add I was thinking of a pet shop, but his tongue is tied up on the words for some reason. It should be easy, to give direction to Ginny, to himself, but it’s not. He doesn’t understand it.
“Maybe once you’ve had more time,” Ginny offers encouragingly.
“Yeah, maybe.” Desperate to shift the attention from himself, he asks, “What about you? I mean, I know you still have another school year to finish. Have you given a thought to what your future looks like?”
Ginny can’t look at him anymore. She doesn’t respond immediately and Harry waits. He continues watching the others – Bill has hooked one ankle over his other knee, head pillowed on one elbow, waving his other in the air in what Harry assumes are wand movements. Ron copies him experimentally.
“Quidditch,” Ginny blurts out in an abrupt rush. Startled, Harry turns to her on reflex. She’s blushing sheepishly. “I – it’s not – it’s not because of you, okay? I mean, I did assume you might play professionally at some point, seeing you’re a natural … you should absolutely still consider it. But me – I know I’m good.” She suddenly stops, sighs scrappily, tugs at her ponytail to undo it, redoing it once more.
Harry’s mind is reeling. Not only at Ginny’s interest in the sport being larger than he had previously known, but also because he had genuinely never considered Quidditch professionally for himself. Even when Victor Krum had complimented him, Harry had brushed it aside … what good would it do to fly when Riddle would have chased him anyway?
Ginny continues, pulling Harry’s attention back to the present. She seems to have gathered more courage because she’s giving Harry the blazing look he had initially fallen in love with.
“I know I’m good,” she repeats firmly. “I also know I can be better. Much, much better. And I want it, I want to be better at it so that I can play professionally. I’m very average in academics, you know that. I’ve never been interested in it. It’s just not for me.”
“I – yeah, no. Gin, that’s great. Really. I think it’s perfect.”
She smiles blindingly. “Yeah? Thanks, Harry.”
Harry means it. Truly, he does. Ginny might not have been in the thick of things the way him, Ron, and Hermione were, but he understands that Ginny is the most free-spirited of all the Weasleys. It had taken Harry a long time to see that, but when he had, after Riddle’s outing, after Sirius’ death, after realising that he’d just spit out Voldemort from his very mind – Ginny had been a breath of fresh air.
She’d balanced out Harry’s inner turmoil. She’d reeked of freedom, the kind Harry had been looking for until it struck him that her association with him would be as good as clipping her wings.
Harry is not arrogant enough to convince himself that leaving her behind had been his act of protection, because Ginny was never safe to begin with. Harry just chose the lesser of two evils.
“I used to think I wouldn’t get a chance to,” Ginny suddenly says in a blunt tone. “When we first began dating, I knew what I was getting myself into. Or at least, I think I did. I knew you wouldn’t have been satisfied until Voldemort was dead, knew that I might have had to make certain compromises after graduation. For the sake of the relationship. For us to work.”
Harry stares.
“And I also knew just as well that you wouldn’t have let me do it. Wouldn’t have let me compromise a thing for your sake. We were doomed from the very start, Harry. Don’t you think?”
She tilts her head back to stare at the sky. Harry has the distinct feeling that she’s avoiding returning his gaze. Something is shifting, though. He feels it in his bones.
“But I made it,” Harry says quietly, the gravity of the words scorching his nerves.
Ginny nods at the sky. “But you made it.”
Harry forces his lips to move. “And now?”
Ginny takes in a deep, trembling breath. She blinks rapidly but cannot hide the sheen of wetness in the corner of her eyes.
“And now … you’re free. We’re both free. Now we can do things that we want, and I want to attend Hogwarts, and I want to play Quidditch.” She turns to him then, looking vulnerable in a way Harry had never seen. “Thank you. For leaving.”
Harry gulps, holding her gaze, face crumbling a bit. He nods, and keeps nodding, throat tight, and feels something split apart inside his body, at the same time that something new settles.
When Fred and George finally do end up bringing back the correct type of ball (after Hermione draws them a picture of the hexagonal pattern on a piece of parchment for reference), the injuries sustained by both teams are somehow worse than a Quidditch game.
Harry keeps getting hit in the face and breaks his nose at least four different times. Bill aims a kick towards Ron, the goalie, so hard that Hermione, the barrier between them, accidentally flails her arms and her wrist gives a loud, echoing snap. And then Fred experiments using his chest, head, shoulder blades, hips, thighs, even his buttocks to hit the ball when Harry explains that using hands is prohibited.
Ginny is the other goalie and she practically pounces on the ball whenever it comes within ten feet radius of the small net she’s protecting as though her life depends on it. Fleur ties her silvery blonde hair in a long plaid, meaning business.
Harry and Draco fly around the Manor.
Draco makes a whole show of presenting his broomshed to Harry, all the brooms neatly lined up against the wall. They’re perfectly maintained, woods polished, twigs trimmed. Draco leads him through the whole collection, reciting their names and manufacturing company –
“Tinderblast by Ellerby and Spudmore,” Draco gestures to one with a curved end and flat brush. “Resilient in the worst climates you can think of. Father sometimes carried it with him whenever he planned visits to Iceland.”
“Air Wave Gold,” Harry recognises the one a little further down the line. He points to the broom, the one with the dip in the handle. “That’s the one Seeker Weekly compared with Turbo XXX, isn’t it?”
Draco nods, grinning. “I always thought this one is better. Better speed control, don’t you think?”
“I’ve never flown it.”
“I’ll show you after,” Draco promises. “Then see that one there? Australian Flyabout 50. Norman’s father gave that to my Father as a token of good faith.” Upon Harry’s blank expression, Draco explains. “The Australian Ministry official, remember? The Australian National Quidditch Team used that in the World Cup.”
Draco continues to show each one with a flourish: Shooting Star used to be my favourite until I was six but only because I was child. Mother handed me that particular one since it wouldn’t fly too high. Then of course, there’s the Nimbus, Cleansweep, Comet, Bluebottle …
“You know what surprises me?” Harry says seriously. “Why didn’t you ever buy your own Firebolt?”
Draco suddenly becomes interested in aligning the wooden sticks just so. He doesn’t respond for such a long time that Harry drifts off to the far end to pick up the Silver Arrow and test it in his hands.
“Father didn’t,” Draco’s strained voice reaches Harry in the quiet. “He thought the Nimbus he bought for the team were wasted. Said he doesn’t want to take a chance.”
Harry fumbles with the Silver Arrow, almost dropping it a few times before settling it back in its rightful place.
“Oh.”
Harry continues walking around the shed aimlessly. A monstrous Broomstick Servicing Kit lies in the corner with the lid shut. He toes it lightly and then peeks out through the windows; the sprawling grass field is empty except for a flight of Flitterbies hovering above the blades. The sunlight catches the myriad of colours on their wings, and Harry decides the blue-winged one flapping circles around the yellow-winged is his favourite.
“Here.”
Draco has moved behind him. He holds out the Air Wave Gold to Harry. Harry grabs it, noticing his old Nimbus 2001 hooked over his shoulder.
They chase the Flitterbies until Draco insists upon visiting the nearby peak. Harry takes one last look at the Blue-Winged fly, who is now performing elaborate twists in the air like a gymnast to grab Yellow-Winged’s attention, before following Draco.
Twenty minutes later, standing at the top of the rising hill, Harry overlooks the small houses in the far distance, the brook cutting it in half from the east as cool breeze hurtles through his loose T-shirt. He lies on his back in the dirt to watch the drifting clouds, not thinking about anything, not really feeling anything either, just watching the clouds for the sake of watching them.
Draco, on the other hand, conjures up a thin blanket to spread out. He draws up his knees and loosely wraps his arms around them, lazily making a few wildflowers dance a ballet routine.
They stay there until the sun begins to set.
Draco has gone down to the cellar to choose a bottle. When Harry walks to the dank room, Draco is comparing two options by reading the labels on them. Harry peers over his shoulder.
“That one has more alcohol content,” Harry points to the right one.
“Does it? I never noticed.”
Harry rolls his eyes. On a whim, he pokes Draco’s sides and Draco positively squawks, jumping away. The bottles crash to the floor with a resounding shatter. Immediately, Kirky slash Peppy appear to clean up the mess. Harry is not sure whether he imagines the dark look thrown his way by the house-elf.
“HARRY!” Draco glares indignantly after the house-elf leaves just as suddenly. “WHAT THE FUCK?”
Harry makes the mistake of ensuring the floor is clean of glass pieces. Before he can process what is happening, Draco lunges forward with vicious intent, like a snake grabbing its prey. Harry tries to dodge but there’s a wall behind him now. Draco’s hands dig into his shoulders, eyes narrowed, and then he’s turning Harry around, twisting his arm behind his back.
Draco keeps Harry in place by physically pushing his body against his. His warm breath is on Harry’s neck and Harry tries to struggle this way and that to no avail.
“Are you a wizard or what?” Harry grunts. His face is pressed on the wall, the cold seeping through his right cheek and ear.
One of Draco’s legs is between Harry’s. His hip is digging in Harry’s lower back. At Harry’s words, Draco pulls out Harry’s wand from his pocket, curls Harry’s fingers on the handle. Harry throws out an elbow, hitting Draco under the ribs. Gasping, Draco’s hold slackens. Harry follows it quickly by bending his knees to wriggle out, but Draco has already recovered. He laughs and turns side-ways, his bony shoulder pinning Harry’s spine.
“That’s a good point, Harry,” Draco’s smirk is dripping through his words, reclaiming Harry’s wand. Once more, he forces Harry’s fingers on the handle and covers it with his own. “And since you are the Master of the Elder Wand, I assume it should be put to good use. Rictusempra.”
Harry’s entire body folds in half, uncontrollable laughter bubbling out of his mouth. Draco neatly steps back, enjoying the show, as Harry rolls on the stone floor, clutching at his sides, wheezing like an old dying man. His skin is flushing to the point of no return.
“You – you,” Harry chokes. “Fucking – goddamn – cheat.”
Draco is twirling Harry’s wand coolly, foot tapping in all its glory. He finally lifts the spell when Harry’s eyes are streaming with tears.
“Bloody arse,” Harry coughs, still gathering his bearings. He rises to his feet shakily. “Give me my wand back.”
“Nuh-uh,” Draco dances back from under Harry’s arm. “Not unless you surrender.”
“Fat chance,” Harry snorts, chasing Draco around the cellar. “Your fantastic bullying tricks don’t work on me, Malfoy.”
Draco barks out a sharp laughter, ducking and rolling, passing Harry’s wand nimbly between his fingers. “Please, Potter. You always fell prey to my brilliant barbs. I even got you a lifetime ban from Quidditch.”
A burst of energy races through Harry at the bitter reminder. He springs the last few feet at Draco and manages to wind his arms around his frame, pinning Draco’s hands to his sides. Up close, for a moment, he thinks they look like twin pools of molten steel – the kind when Nuri was around.
He grins victoriously, crowding Draco back against the wall, holding him in place with his body this time around.
Draco huffs, pale skin flushed pink. The crown of his white blonde hair, the bit longer than the sides, flops over his forehead, distracting Harry for a split second.
With every inhale, Harry can feel Draco’s sharp gasps against his chest.
“I win,” Harry says breathlessly.
“If anything,” Draco pants, eyes narrowed, “you provoked me. And I still haven’t chosen a bottle.”
Harry laughs. Reluctantly, he steps back, clutching at his wand tightly just in case. Draco adjusts his peach sweater prissily, horrified at the spot of dirt across the torso.
“I think we should contact them,” Luna is saying in the Sitting Room when Harry and Draco enter.
Harry settles on the window ledge as Draco drifts over to Blaise. Hermione is pacing the room. She only pauses long enough to snatch the filled glass from the air when it nudges her head. Blaise flicks his wrist once more, sending the rest of the glasses flying to Harry, Ron, Draco, and Luna.
“What will we do?” Ron says. He takes a tentative sip, seems to like it, and takes a deeper one.
“If the memories are repressed,” Blaise adds, capping the bottle, “talking to them directly might give us an idea of whether they’ve dug up anything on their own.”
Luna grimaces at the taste, immediately passing it to Ron. She wipes her chin with the back of her hand. “It’s a perfect opportunity for a vacation. The Australian Banshees once defeated a Poltergeist, you know. Maybe Hogwarts could keep one around. I can’t wait for the Bloody Baron to show up every time Peeves requires entertainment. I tried explaining that the Wrackspurts are terribly unhappy with him, but he doused me in ink.”
“I always hated that arsehole,” Draco mutters grimly. “Ruined my batch of sweets every chance he got.”
“Karma,” Ron beams happily, waggling his eyebrows.
Harry sniggers then shuts up when Hermione throws a murderous glare around the room. She drains the entire liquid in one go, sways lightly, rapidly blinking. Ron makes a move to stand, but Hermione holds up a finger.
“I’m fine,” she says, dropping into the armchair beside Blaise. She tilts her head back to stare at the high ceiling. Sighing heavily, she says, “I needed that.”
Apropos of nothing, she adds, all the while to the ceiling, “Did you know that the Muggle drinking age is eighteen? I always wondered why the magical community decided seventeen is good enough for everything: marriage, alcohol, careers, kids, the whole package. It’s not as though Muggles are dumber. In fact, their education system makes a lot more sense than ours. When I first came to Hogwarts, I realised that magical children are either home-schooled or sent to private institutes until they get their letters.”
“I went to a Muggle school,” Harry supplies. “It was shit.”
Hermione snorts. “Mine was not that great, either,” she admits sheepishly. “Mostly because I was bullied a lot and no one could answer my questions of how do objects fly. They thought I was making it up.”
“Most of the purebloods are home-schooled,” Draco adds. “Every family educates the children according to their traditional beliefs.”
“I was home-schooled, too,” Luna nods. “My mother would teach me all sorts of new things everyday. After she died, Daddy grieved for a long time. He only felt better once I got my letter.”
“Percy taught me whenever Mum was too busy,” Ron laughs, tone embarrassed as if he’s admitting something shameful. “Fred and George were too caught up in each other. Bill and Charlie preferred to stay out. Not that Perce minded, honestly. I could have lived without some of the lessons, though.”
Hermione smiles at him. “You turned out well.”
Ron grins at her, all soft around the edges. “So did you.”
“Stop eyefucking each other for one second, Merlin,” Draco says loudly, throwing up his hands dramatically. “I had to put up with that shit long enough during camping.”
Luna brightens up, straightening in her seat. “You were camping?”
Hermione coughs awkwardly, but Ron rolls his eyes. He says, “Mate, we had to put up with a lot of shit, too, let’s not forget that. For starters, your Bloke Bonding with Harry. Seriously, it was so fucked up I couldn’t believe my eyes.”
Harry splutters, sliding a few inches on the window ledge. His hand tilts and the scotch sloshes dangerously. “Excuse me?”
At the same time, Draco shudders in revulsion. “Bloke Bonding?”
“Yeah,” Ron says matter-of-factly. “I get that you had saved his arse or whatever. But Harry is too fucking forgiving for his own good. What did you call it, ‘Mione?”
“Hero-complex,” Hermione quips up.
“Exactly,” Ron nods. “Harry behaved as if the world would have ended if we tossed you in Muggle London. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have survived,” he adds sternly. “If you do anything even remotely successful, it’s surviving.”
“Ron,” Harry exclaims, horrified, feeling utterly betrayed by his best friend.
“What?” Ron shrugs. “It’s true.”
“Of course,” Draco says sarcastically. “I wouldn’t have stood out like a sore thumb at all. You really didn’t know the ground-reality, did you?”
“We knew some of it,” Ron says defensively. “We heard bits and pieces on Potterwatch. I even ran into Snatchers myself.”
“Potterwatch was very helpful,” Luna agrees. “I enjoyed Lee’s commentary quite a bit; it was very comforting.”
Blaise thins his lips, knocking down his own drink. He refills it immediately.
It’s Blaise who explains the situation in detail. He tells them how Death Eaters had practically infested every area of the country, Snatchers were only one of the moving factions. There were assigned groups to infiltrate Muggle law institutes as well as the Muggle government. The other countries had ceased all international transportation (Harry recalls Riddle practically flying overseas), believing that it could somehow mitigate the travel options available to the enemies. No country had wanted to tempt fate once it became clear that Voldemort had taken over the British Ministry.
Omniscient, Blaise says. You couldn’t shit without You-Know-Who knowing about it.
“When we heard Draco escaped,” he adds gravely in the tense, perturbed silence, “the news was hushed up. It only reached Hogwarts because Pans wouldn’t shut up about it. But then he was seen with you three, fleeing from Gringotts … it spread like wildfire. He was the first open rebel in their ranks. Naturally, he needed to die immediately.”
A sick feeling settles in Harry’s guts like lead. His gaze snaps to Draco instinctively, who is sitting in his armchair stiffly, pale as a ghost. If Draco had never escaped … if Harry had not offered him protection … the gravity of what Draco gave up – just to stay alive –
It forces Harry to appreciate what he, himself, has been given even more fiercely. Perhaps Dumbledore knew that Harry wouldn’t die, knew that Harry would choose to return, would choose to finish the fight.
No matter what the case, Harry was faced with options. Either he could have dusted his hands off, decided he’d had enough of staying alive, would have rejoiced being reunited with his parents … but here is Draco, whom Harry had never given enough credit before …
Harry grew up knowing sacrifice intimately. Took it as a mantra, chanting it in his head until it became a part of him. True, he never wanted anyone to die for him, why would he, but they still did, and when the time came, Harry did the same. He was taught sacrifice is good, it’s The Right Thing, always, always, always. People who love you, sacrifice for you. Plain and simple. Sometimes, they end up giving their very lives.
Draco always knew he was going to die sooner or later, said so himself. Said he knew Riddle planned on killing him all along.
With a gut-wrenching jolt, Harry realises that Draco came to the Forest wanting to save Harry, yes, but also ready to die. Had deemed it acceptable in the depths of his Slytherin self-preservative soul.
When Draco lifts his stare, he looks tired, exhausted, soul-deep scarred. And Harry wants nothing more than to fly him to the top of a mountain, or skim toes over the Pacific Ocean, or feed him a nice non-English meal just to take that expression away.
He does nothing, though. Can’t even move. Can’t even blink.
Harry, himself, feels soul-deep tired. He places his drink beside him and walks out of the room without a word. No one stops him. He needs space, lots of it. Wants to stare at walls, not doing anything, not thinking anything, not feeling anything.
He’s so sick of feeling these days. Fucking goddamn Riddle. Even after his death, Harry can feel his cold breaths down his neck, the hissing sound curling on his skin, taunting and mocking and asking what is your purpose now that I’m dead?
The Manor walls hum with ancient wisdom beneath his trailing fingers. A graveyard, Harry thinks. A graveyard of Draco’s childhood, of Draco’s parents, of Draco’s choices. He still doesn’t understand how Draco stays here, breathes in this suffocating death day after day. Harry can barely keep his mind together right now.
He just – he no longer wants to stay here. He needs to get out, this instant. Hermione had screamed within these walls, like countless others. Bellatrix had danced down these corridors, wand waving like a toy, had haunted dreams and turned them into nightmares.
The nearest Floo is in the Parlour. Harry walks, and keeps walking, barely aware of his surroundings anymore. The Malfoy ancestors sneer at him in silent accusation as he passes their portraits, full of disdain and scorn. His legs quicken, ears ringing, even though not a single word is spoken out loud.
Harry doesn’t leave Ron’s bedroom for the rest of the evening. He keeps pacing, hands running through his hair, wanting to kick and destroy and rage and cry –
Ron and Hermione bang on the door for an hour before Molly gently leads them down. Ginny knocks a few times, urging him to eat. Arthur drops by, his calming voice assuring Harry through the door that all things eventually pass.
Harry tucks the words inside his ribcage securely, breathing in, out, in, out.
And then one day, Harry gasps awake from a nightmare in the early hours of the morning. Ron is sitting up on his elbows, blanket around his waist, mirroring Harry’s haunted expression. Down in the kitchen, Hermione is nursing her own large coffee in the bleak light, sickly pale and dark circles marring her eyes.
“Which one?” Harry mumbles, elbow propped up, head hanging in his palm, cradling sugared coffee in the other.
Hermione sighs. “Cup. You?”
Harry recalls the searing heat, the phoenixes and chimaeras and sphinxes and dragons. Crabbe’s fury at Draco for failing him, at Harry for trying to save Draco, at Hermione for Stunning Goyle. His spine still stings with phantom burn, burn, burn. “Diadem. Ron?”
Ron is slumped at Arthur’s usual chair, head pillowed on his crossed arms. When he speaks, he speaks to the table. “Locket.”
It’s often the same items, except that Harry sometimes dreams of the Diary-Riddle having managed to escape. Ginny dies in those nightmares because Riddle has sunk his nails too deep in her psyche, and would not let go no matter how many times Harry leaves her behind.
Molly finds them sleeping at the breakfast table, cards her fingers through their hair to wake them up. Arthur keeps up a constant stream of meaningless news as he reads The Daily Prophet, and then Ginny takes one look through sleepy eyes, offering to play two-on-two Quidditch.
Harry doesn’t comment on Draco’s yawns during lunch in the library. He doesn’t comment when Draco violently lurches away from a mere garden snake, neither does he comment on Draco’s late night flying endeavours despite appearing to be dead on his feet.
Long after Ron and Hermione have left, Harry stays back. He sits with Draco at the large dining table and watches as Draco plays with his food.
“It’s Korean,” Harry says encouragingly. He takes a bite of the strongly flavoured noodles floating in soup, suppressing a grimace. It’s not that he doesn’t like it; he probably would have if his throat weren’t this tight.
Draco gathers some of the kimchi, stares at it for a long time. Eventually, he puts it in his mouth, chewing slowly and mechanically. His gulp is audible in the quiet.
So Harry takes another bite, and so Draco does the same, on and on it goes.
Once or twice, Harry finds him tucked inside a portrait, hugging his knees to his chest. Harry climbs inside, though there is barely any space.
Draco keeps staring at his Mark. It’s faded now; the snake hasn’t slithered in weeks. Harry’s scar hasn’t hurt in weeks. But that doesn’t matter, does it? Because Blaise was right in at least one thing. The last time Voldemort was believed to be dead, he returned years later when everyone had pretty much moved on from him.
He doesn’t blame Draco for studying his Mark for hours on end, not when Harry keeps hearing the hissing voice in his sleep. What is your purpose now that I’m dead?
With time, Ron gains his anger as Hermione loses hers. Their fights sometimes escalate to screaming matches, the kind they had back in Fifth Year.
“I was trying to protect everyone! You know that!” Harry barks for the thousandth time.
Ron is pacing the small bedroom and Hermione is sitting stockstill on the bed. She’d put up a Muffliato as soon as they had barged inside half an hour ago.
“We were all doing that!” Ron counters in a rage. “I was protecting my family, Hermione was protecting hers, we were all protecting each other! We deserved a goodbye, Harry! After everything– do not try to tell me that we didn’t!”
“You would have tried to stop me.”
“WITH BLOODY GOOD REASONS!” Ron roars, rounding on Harry, looking like a wild caged animal. “MY BEST MATE DECIDED TO DIE AND DIDN’T EVEN TELL ME! Do you have any idea what it would have done to me? To both of us?”
Harry turns to Hermione, seeking her out, believing she could see the fucking cold logic in his actions. But Hermione is so close to tears, her chin trembling, that Harry’s words die in his throat.
“Yes, we would have tried to stop you,” Hermione says in a shaky voice, fingers gripping the edge of the mattress tightly. “Of course, we would have. We would have tried to find other ways … researched a bit more … lived on the run for a bit longer … anything to keep you alive. Is that so wrong?”
“What about the world?” Harry says. There’s a rising tide of guilt inside him; he shoves it down. “I needed to die – Dumbledore said so.”
“Yeah, well, Dumbledore is a nut crack,” Ron says coldly. For the first time, he sounds like he genuinely means it and not in a good way. “Just because he was alright with losing you does not mean we were.”
“It was not about me.”
“Just a goodbye, Harry,” Hermione chokes. “That’s all. That’s it.”
“I wouldn’t have been able to–” Harry’s eyes are burning, stinging, he blinks rapidly but it doesn’t help. “If I would have – I just – had to. It’s important to me that you understand that.”
Ron deflates like a popped balloon. He slumps down beside Harry, messily clapping on his back, sniffling noisily. Hermione envelops them both in tight hug.
On the morning of Harry’s birthday, he wakes up to a booming explosion.
“Wha-”
The Burrow rocks. Harry feels his bed slide across the floor to bump into Ron’s. He clambers up clumsily, still half-asleep, to find Ron already at the window, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.
Harry jumps up. He grabs his wand from under the pillow and joins Ron at the window. Outside, a large crowd is gathered, cheering and clapping and screaming. Huge posters of himself stare back at him with the words HAPPY BIRTHDAY HARRY written in moving, animated letters. In some posters, his face is smiling. In some, there are cartoons of his last winning moment against Riddle; one figure with glasses and lightning bolt on the forehead is waving his wand rather dramatically at a cloak-clad snake. The cartoon Harry’s wand lets out a red jet of light, meeting the green one in the middle, and then the wand is soaring high in the air right in Harry’s raised fingers as snake-Riddle collapses in a heap.
And then there are the camera flashes. So many of them.
But the noise of the explosion seems to have come from one of the fireworks set behind the crowd. Even as Harry watches numbly, fire-breathing dragons and rockets with long tails of shooting stars are bursting in the sky.
One of the posters in the back catches his attention. Against the backdrop of Harry on a broom are the words HARRY BIRTHDAY!
Ron doesn’t know whether to choke or laugh, so he does both. “Harry Birthday, mate.”
Harry is flushing like a goddamn tomato. “Shut up. And thanks.”
Hermione bursts through the room in her lavender plushy dressing gown, panting and wild bushy hair flying around her. She’s gripping her wand in a white-knuckled hold, looking furious and sleep-deprived.
“We need to leave. Now. Mr. Weasley called Kingsley and the Ministry officials will be here any second to take care of this. Honestly, I can’t believe the nerve–!” She manages to give him a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Happy birthday, Harry!”
And then she’s flying out the room.
“LEAVE WHERE?” Harry calls out behind her, running to the open door.
Hermione is already on the fourth floor landing when she replies. “GRIMMAULD! WE NEED TO RESET THE ENCHANTMENTS!”
The Burrow rocks once more, sending Ron’s belongings clattering to the floor as another loud explosion rents the chaotic morning. It’s enough incentive for them to finally dress up in the nearest clothes and run down to the kitchen.
Ginny and Molly wish him a hurried Happy Birthday each while Arthur finishes up his Floo call with an unknown man. He rises to his feet, knees popping, and sweat dripping down his bald head. When he sees Harry, he beams at him.
Hermione skids into the kitchen, huffing. “I’m ready, I’m ready, I’m ready. I’ve packed everything.”
“The others will be here in a minute,” Molly frets, anxiously peeking out the windows.
The Apparition to Grimmauld is worse than all the Apparitions Harry has put himself through. As soon as they land on the last step, everyone is tumbling down in a heap. Ron, nearest to the door, wrenches it open.
The narrow hallway is derelict without the regular maintenance. Thick curtains are thicker with grime and dust, the umbrella stand is toppled as always, the coat hangers are rusty, and Harry eyes the torch fixtures uneasily. He doesn’t know what it means when Draco had clarified the House spit them out, but nothing terrible is happening yet so it must be relatively safe.
Immediately, there’s work to be done; starting with Walburga’s screeching portrait that Fred shuts with an amused laugh. He and George are quick to Apparate to the following floors for a proper sweep, while Molly and Arthur go down to the basement. Ginny, Percy, and Bill branch off to different rooms on the ground floor. Fleur doesn’t move. She’s wincing and grimacing, her hand flying to her nose at the scent of utter disuse of the house.
Ron clambers away to the kitchen. Harry picks his way through the hallway, peeking in door after door, feeling overwhelmed. He thought he had been ready for this, to confront it, but it still comes as a huge shockwave of equal grief and respite.
“Kreacher!”
Kreacher appears with a loud crack. He seems genuinely surprised at being back at his old (actual?) place of employment (?). Harry doesn’t care. He’s busy mirroring Kreacher’s pleased grin.
Hermione is inching forward bit by bit, waving her wand in smooth motions. Once or twice, Harry thinks he can hear creatures creeping behind dusty furniture but cannot be completely sure. His senses are not working properly, anyway; he sees Sirius’ handsome, haunted face hulking around corners, Remus’ angry yells and frustration and sheer fear of having put his family in danger, Dumbledore’s hasty exits to avoid catching Harry’s red eyes –
All of this while Fred and George’s laughter filters down through the floors, Ginny’s shout of delight at finding her favourite armchair still intact is loud, Fleur has sidled with Percy and trying her best to educate him on the importance of cleanliness (which Harry thinks is a pretty moot point but Percy is nodding along, agreeing, adding his own knowledge to her remarks), Molly and Arthur’s conversation is soft, Kreacher is croaking out his earnest greetings to the hanging heads of his ancestors, and then Ron is declaring that the pantry needs to be stocked –
Harry rolls up the sleeves of his hoodie and disappears to Sirius’ old bedroom.
Harry is in the middle of Hermione’s long-winded justification for her choice of the bedroom on the second floor, when an iridescent fox jumps through the door. Draco sounds highly irritated, for some reason.
“Where the fuck are you? I tried Weasley’s chimney and shouted myself hoarse like a complete arse. If this finds you in a Muggle place, I don’t give a goddamn shit. Handle it, Oh Saviour of the Crawling Peasants.”
Hermione’s already tutting at Draco’s colourful choice of words by the time the fox dissipates in a wisp of white smoke. On the other hand, Harry is conjuring his own Patronus to respond back.
After sending it off, Harry turns to Hermione once more to ensure that she can absolutely have this bedroom if she so wishes, or any other room, anything really, whatever she wants. Hermione ruffles his hair fondly.
“This is good, Harry,” she grins. “I like the windows.”
Harry thinks it’s pretty ironic that they finally begin fixing up the place out of sheer necessity on his own birthday.
Nevertheless, he sets to cleaning it up. He begins with removing all the layered dust, moving furniture around to get to the worst bits, and Hermione walks around the space, one hand on hip, the other absently twirling her wand, musing loudly where she could shift the bed for the most natural light in the mornings.
And then Molly is calling up the stairs for Harry.
“Coming! Hermione?”
“Hm?” She’s eyeing the dresser as if it has offended her somehow by existing. “Go ahead. It’s fine. I think I like the wardrobe by that wall – it’s closer to the bathroom.”
Harry leaves her to it. When he steps outside in the hall, he passes Bill coming out of another bedroom. Bill pretends to hurl the stack of chairs he’s levitating right in Harry’s face, and Harry instinctively ducks, laughing, but Bill steers them away at the last second, winking.
Harry takes two steps at a time, passes Ginny on the first floor where she is scolding a dangling spider, and then he’s stomping down the steps to the basement, rounding into the kitchen, and suddenly freezes, blinking.
Draco, Luna, Dean, and Blaise are standing around the large dining table. Arthur is pressing cups of teas in their hands while Molly frets around Kreacher’s grating greetings as he bows down to Draco. Draco’s staring at the elf with mild interest, eyes flicking around the room curiously, and then eventually catching Harry’s with an annoyed huff.
“Er,” Harry says elaborately.
“–last living blood relative of my Mistress, Mistress will be very pleased, if Sir could follow Kreacher to the outside, Kreacher is happy to make formal introductions–”
Draco pins him on the spot, fingers tightening around his cup. “You dick–”
“Gracious Godric, kids–”
“Sorry Mr. Weasley, but Harry is a complete and utter dickhead–”
“Now, now, Draco–”
“Woozy Wuss here did not bother informing me that he would be moving today, on his birthday–”
Luna quips up, “We were at the Manor waiting for you, but when you did not show up, Draco became a little impatient–”
Draco whirls on Luna, betrayed. “I did not. I got annoyed because Harry is an annoying arse who does not have the decency–”
“Mistress always enjoyed Miss Narcissa’s visits when Miss Narcissa was only a child, Mistress will be happy to have some company, if Draco Malfoy will please follow Kreacher–”
“To be fair,” Blaise says mildly, “I doubt he knew you were waiting for him.”
Dean snorts before half-heartedly smothering it under the pretence of taking a deep gulp of his tea and then promptly choking on it.
“Shut up,” Draco snaps, one hand pinching the bridge of his nose, while the other tightens even further on the cup. Harry is worried for the cup. If Draco breaks it, Kreacher might actually cry.
Now that he looks for it, Kreacher does seem to be inching forward bit by bit, looking back and forth between the cup, Draco, and Harry, hands ascending every passing moment.
“Er?” Harry asks intricately.
Molly doesn’t let Harry make a complete idiot of himself for much longer. She physically pushes each of them in a chair, sliding the saucer of biscuits smoothly between them, enquiring what they would like for dinner.
And then all the Weasleys are cramming inside the dining room having heard the additional voices. Harry flattens himself against the wall beside the door and watches Ginny trail down the steps, lighting up when she sees Luna, Fred and George pop up as is typical right beside Molly, Bill and Fleur are engaged in a furious whispered conversation and Harry remembers the last time they’d seen Draco (damnit), and Percy looks highly unimpressed by the whole spectacle but manages a polite greeting. The last ones are Ron and Hermione, who have to squeeze on Harry’s both sides since there is no longer any room to even shuffle their feet.
Draco is whispering heatedly in Dean’s ear. It has Dean shaking his head, laughing, passing Draco a biscuit off-handedly. Draco doesn’t take it. Instead, he whirls around to whisper more in Blaise’s ear, but Blaise is in the middle of a polite conversation with Ginny and he refuses to acknowledge whatever trauma Draco thinks he’s being put through.
To be fair, he chose to be here.
“How did they get in?” Harry leans sideways to ask Hermione.
She replies flippantly, “Floo, I assume. Arthur and Molly must have reset it.”
“To the Manor?” Harry asks dubiously.
Hermione shrugs, studying the room with more interest than is strictly necessary. “Why not? We’re practically there every day. You, more than us. I’m sure they thought it would be considerate to set it up for you.”
Harry straightens up, nodding, swallowing a bit. His mouth is really dry. He should drink some water.
There’s a goblet near Luna. He contemplates Summoning it but Master of Elder Wand or not, it will probably take forever for it to reach him in this crowd. So he unplants himself from the wall, manoeuvring around the table–
Fred and George have moved over behind Draco’s chair. It has Harry’s forehead creasing in concern (?). To be fair, it feels as though there are landmines under everyone’s feet and it will take careful consideration of their every move if they were to arrive on the other side with no death threats, duels, literal physical fights, or sneering insults at the very least. The feud between the Weasleys and the Malfoys is almost as infamous as the one between Harry and Draco at Hogwarts, which is saying a lot. Hurriedly, he squeezes between Bill and Fleur, and a quick apology later, he’s almost running to the water goblet as though his life depends on it.
But he needn’t have worried. Because when Harry finally reaches that side –
Draco is rolling his eyes. “One hundred percent human sitting here.”
“See, you say that–” George raises his eyebrows.
“But are you sure?” Fred adds.
“Are you telling us there is no Veela ancestry there?”
“None at all?”
Draco shrugs, adjusting the sleeves of his soft lavender sweater. “It’s the hair, isn’t it?”
“Pretty much,” Fred nods solemnly. “If you were to grow them out–”
“Fleur wouldn’t mind company–”
Draco shudders violently. “Please, no.”
Wouldn’t want to look like my Father, Harry finishes the sentence in his head just as he extends an arm to pick up the goblet and guzzle down water. When he returns it to the table, Luna beams up at him.
“Hello, Harry.”
“Hey, Luna. Did you manage to find your matching pyjama set?”
“Oh, no,” Luna’s face falls. “I went back to the shop but they were all sold out.”
Harry offers a sympathetic smile. “That’s too bad. You know, now that I’ll be living here, I can cook those meals for you. What do you say?”
Luna agrees whole-heartedly, making dinner plans and game nights, and Kreacher gives him a stink eye. Harry scurries away but there’s no space and he ends up on the empty chair between Blaise and Dean.
“–Ice Mice is more citrusy–” Ginny is saying in exasperation to Blaise.
“–if you want that, but the main point of a chocolate is the chocolate–”
“How about Salt Water Taffy?” Ginny demands. “Surely, you like those?”
Blaise’s nose scrunches up and Ginny looks as if he has personally offended her. Quickly, he adds, “You should try Wine-gum. I have a feeling you might enjoy it.”
Ginny throws a glance at her parents, who have now trailed off to Ron and Hermione against the wall. “As long as you don’t tell them.”
Blaise follows her gaze and laughs, voice deep and rumbling. “Deal.”
Dean strikes up a conversation with Harry on his other side. They meander into idle chitchat. Dean recalls the time when Neville had not slept for days when Seamus decided it would be fun to stash a Parroting Peer under his bed so that every night, right on clockwork, Snape’s hissing voice would float in the darkness, reprimanding Neville on his terribly done homework. When they found out that Snape was actually his Boggart, Ron had felt so bad he made a show of chucking it right out of the window, still shaking due to his own Giant-Spider-Boggart, and Harry had pointed out how they might get in trouble if Snape finds it, because it’s not as if he needs a reason to reduce House points.
And then all five of them had to wade through the heavy downpour that evening – they hadn’t learned the Umbrella Charm yet and asking Hermione’s help would have guaranteed at least a two-hour lecture on Emotional Effects of Pranking or something. By the time Harry noticed the green glint partially buried under the cold mud, they’d all been shivering and had to make a trip to the Hospital Wing for a Pepper-Up before they could talk without their teeth clattering painfully.
Blaise quips up then, saying how he’d never participated as such, but that Draco and Theo had this Curse Competition every weekend since Fourth Year. Apparently, it had begun when they heard Marcus Flint explaining the meaning of puss –
Harry’s eyes widen and he clamps Blaise’s mouth shut with his palm in a rush. He tilts forward a little to check on Ginny on Blaise’s other side; thankfully, her attention is on an irritated Percy and a very solemn George.
“Do you want to get hexed?” Harry whispers heatedly.
Blaise is eyeing the hand on his face dryly. He quirks up an eyebrow in a silent question, gaze flickering in Draco’s direction, in a very deliberate are-you-truly-as-mental-as-Draco-claims-you-to-be look.
Harry rolls his eyes, dropping his hands. He exchanges a grave expression with Dean, who is shaking his head disappointedly at Blaise.
“He wasn’t there,” Dean says in a way that is more to convince himself than others. “He doesn’t know.”
“Know what?” Blaise’s tone is perplexed but he apparently senses the tension in the air and side-glances Ginny cautiously.
Harry lowers his voice. “This one time, Luca became a little vocal about the magazines that were being circulated in the dorm. Ginny overheard him and he was – well, he was being a little lewd about the – the organs – and the next thing we know, he’s holding his hands on his crotch.”
Blaise chokes out a pained noise. Harry thumps his shoulder soothingly.
And then Neville is stumbling out of the Floo, crashing painfully against the back of Draco’s chair. Draco shrieks, shooting up so suddenly he quakes the whole table, glaring at the intruder.
“Merlin, Longbottom. You got ash all over my clothes! Act like a fucking pure-blood for once in your life!”
Neville grins sheepishly and flicks away the dirt with a quick spell. Immediately, he catches Harry’s gaze, grin widening, bounding over to hug him enthusiastically. “Happy Birthday, Harry!”
Harry oomphs, patting Neville’s back. “Thanks, Nev. How did you–?”
Neville pulls back. “’Mione told us you’d be here. We were planning on visiting The Burrow but–” Here, Neville winces sympathetically. “Heard about the crowd.”
“Oh.”
Neville is turning to Draco once more. “The others will be through any second, Malfoy. You better move back.”
Harry watches with growing dumbfounded-ness as literally rest of the Dumbledore’s Army files inside the crammed space in singles and groups. Angelina, Katie, Hannah, Lee, Seamus, Padma … But what really shuts off his throat is the last pair.
Andromeda Tonks greets Harry warmly as though Harry has not been avoiding her since the war ended. She wraps him in a hug, green-haired baby Teddy squeezed between them, wishing him a Happy Birthday.