Walk of Shame (19/?)
Title: Walk of Shame (19/?)
Author: dracogotgame
Word Count: 3,000
Rating: R
Warning: Angst.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. This was written for fun, not profit.
Author's Notes: Hi y'all. Remember me? *raises hand sheepishly* I have been gone...just a little less than a year now, and I am so sorry. I've had a weird, weird year. Nothing to write home about but it was long and hard (lol, pun intended) and I am so thankful 2017 is going bye bye. Maybe 2018 will be less of a shit-tornado. Anyway, I am doing quite okay (although time is still an issue) and I figured Christmas is as good a time as any to bring back this fic (which is absolutely not abandoned, the author is just a lazy jerk). I love you all, and have missed you greatly. Thank you for all the birthday wishes (which I will answer as soon as possible). In the meantime presenting part 19 of the Walk of Shame Series. Merry Christmas, fandom friends. May this year bring you all the joy and happiness you deserve.
Two months later:
The cold was receding.
As Draco walked the now familiar, cobbled streets of this small village, he wondered if he should have bothered with a scarf at all. The sunlight was weak and quickly cowed by murky clouds, but there was a stubborn warmth in the air. The fresh scent of new leaves and blooming buds flittered in the breeze. The snow had melted into grey slush, clinging stubbornly to the soles of his shoes.
So, it was official.
Winter was over. And spring, against all odds, was finally here.
Draco absently wondered if he was a fool to hope for better this time around. He, of all people, should be wary. The scars of last winter still lingered, barely skin-deep. Sometimes, they still got him off guard. The sound of fading footsteps and the door closing shut for the final time still came for him in the stillness of the night, threatening to upend his progress. Sometimes, in his most shameful moments, the grief overpowered him. Sometimes, he broke down and wept all over again. It left him feeling exhausted and defeated. It was like nothing had changed at all.
But in spite of those moments of hopelessness and the lingering grief that just refused to be put to rest, he knew it wasn’t like last time. He knew it was different.
Because this time, he wasn’t being dragged down by that one last shred of hope. How could he when the truth was staring him right in the face?
Harry was gone. He had walked out of Draco’s life that day and seemingly disappeared off the face of the earth.
In the week that followed, Draco would come to realise how accurate that analogy was.
First, Harry stopped coming into work. This wasn’t such a shock to those who knew the immediate situation. Hermione suggested that Harry had been through a severe emotional upheaval and probably needed time to process it. Ron pointed out that he was technically still fired. Kingsley hadn’t backed down yet so there was hardly any point in Harry being there and he probably knew it. And Draco…well, Draco tried not to read too much into it. However, when two weeks went by and both Ron and Hermione claimed they hadn’t received so much as an owl from Harry, it did worry him. He tried to tell himself it wasn’t any of his business. He and Harry were done. It hurt but the plain and simple truth was that Harry didn’t want to get better, he didn’t want to move on…and maybe, maybe the only thing left to do now was to respect his wishes and leave him alone.
Still, the anxiety lingered. And he tried not to, he really did, but a part of him remained wary and alert, on the look-out for any news.
Bit by bit, more pieces of Harry disappeared. One day, maybe a month into the whole mess, Ron showed up at the Archives and claimed that Harry’s old flat-the place he’d been staying at before he moved in with Draco- had been cleared. Everything he owned was gone. He was all but moved out and he hadn’t told a soul he was leaving town. Ron was justifiably angry when he broke the news, but the faint hint of hurt in his tone was unmistakable and Draco took great care not to bring it up. Sometimes, it was easy to forget that he wasn’t the only one Harry had abandoned.
A few days after that, the news of Harry’s mission leaked to the press. Even two months later, Draco still remembered the headline blazed across the Prophet’s front page.
HE’S DONE IT AGAIN
Saviour Singlehandedly Foils Domestic Terrorist Operation
The whole thing snowballed from there. It didn’t take long for the press hounds to figure out that Harry was missing. Shacklebolt didn’t exactly help. The Head Auror’s telling silence and outright refusal to comment on anything from his Star Auror’s whereabouts to the specifics of the mission itself, sent the rumour mills working overtime. The conspiracy theories came fast, each more ridiculous than the last.
Harry was on another top secret mission in Europe. He was receiving an Order of Merlin, Second Class. He was dead- killed in action during the ‘mission’ Shacklebolt didn’t want to talk about, and if it wasn’t true where was he and why couldn’t anybody explain his absence?
Naturally, when nothing substantial turned up at the Ministry, the vultures came for Harry’s inner circle.
Thankfully, Hermione had seen the storm brewing a mile away and figured out how to head it off at the pass. A few medical files moved, some dates changed, a hastily filled prescription and an anonymous note to the Prophet’s editor, and suddenly, it was common knowledge that Auror Potter was recovering from a bout of exhaustion and was taking a well-deserved leave of absence, whereabouts not disclosed.
It worked like a charm. Draco, who had initially balked at the brazenness of the lie, was both bemused and grudgingly impressed- grudgingly impressed by Hermione’s resourcefulness, bemused by how ridiculously proud Ron was of her deviousness- by how effortlessly the whole thing had blown over.
It was risky, but it bought them more time. It bought Draco more time. To…process things. While the world continued to turn and Harry went from the talk-of-the-town to last week’s news, Draco struggled in private, coming to terms with his choices. There weren’t many.
He could be angry and bitter. He could hurt. He could push down everything until it didn’t hurt so much. He could forget all about Harry and go back to the way things had been one Christmas ago.
Or…or he could let it in. He could accept the pain. He could acknowledge the anger. He could live with what had happened, and let it become a part of him.
Because the truth was, he didn’t want to forget Harry.
The last time Harry had left him, half conscious in front of a dying fire, he had felt like he’d lost everything. In that moment, he would have given everything he owned to forget Harry. The pain was so great, and the effort to block it out was so exhausting. Harry had destroyed him then, he really had. But- and as hard as it was to admit- Harry had also put him back together. He’d been drifting before Harry came into his life, hiding in shadows and parchment and watching the world go by with a growing sense of hopelessness and resentment. It was Harry who pulled him into the light.
In the end, Draco couldn’t return the favour. He couldn’t…make Harry come back. He couldn’t force him to get the help he needed. He would always regret it bitterly.
But that didn’t mean he had to stop loving Harry. He was in too deep for that. It was too late to stop. It had been for a long time.
So, he realised that he would just have to live with it. All of it. The love and the pain and the joy and the hurt.
And that’s when he started doing this.
He’d grown the lilies himself. It wasn’t the season, and it had taken four attempts and several variations of a Blooming Charm he’d come across in the Archive’s Herbology section. They probably wouldn’t last a day in the cold, but…he wanted to bring them anyway.
After all, he thought with a smile, it would be rude to visit Harry’s mum and not bring flowers.
****
It was peaceful out here.
The cemetery was quiet and deserted at this time of the day. Not that Draco had anticipated a rush. No one ever came here, as far as he could tell from his many visits.
He wondered why he did it, sometimes.
Coming to terms with Harry’s departure had led him down some strange paths. After the obligatory moping and feeling sorry for himself, he turned his efforts towards understanding. There were so many unresolved questions. He just...needed answers. The realisation that he didn’t really know Harry as well as he thought had been jarring. It was a quest for closure that led him to reading old Prophet articles (most of them horrendously inaccurate) before turning to the only people he knew who could give him the real story.
Ron and Hermione had been honest and supportive, if a little perplexed by his sudden interest in Harry’s past. Ron, ever the loyalist, was wary of revealing things that he considered Harry’s business and Harry’s business only. Nevertheless, he did try, and Draco was grateful for that. Hermione’s concerns were more pragmatic. She worried about Draco ‘hanging on to the past’ and losing himself - a reasonable fear given the state her best friends had ended up in. Draco did his best to assuage her concerns, and eventually, hesitantly, she told him about another Christmas, a long time ago when she and Harry had found themselves in the little known town of Godric’s Hollow. She had conjured flowers for Harry’s parents that night. She teared up when she spoke about it, and not for the first time, Draco was bitterly ashamed of his younger self and how he had once treated this brave, wonderful woman.
He never told her he went to Godric’s Hollow that same day.
To be honest, he probably couldn’t explain it to her if he’d tried. He didn’t really understand it either-why he’d gone there in the first place, or why he’d visited a dozen or so times since. All he knew was that the first glance of that lonely, quiet grave-site had stayed with him. They were untended to, buried deep in the snow with nothing to show they’d been ever visited save a shrivelled wreath of flowers. It was obvious that nobody had been here for a long time. Years, perhaps.
The idea that Harry hadn’t, or perhaps couldn’t bring himself to visit his parents for this long…it had saddened him.
And more than anything, Draco was sick and tired of being sad. So he decided that if Harry wouldn’t visit his parents, then he would do it.
Maybe it was a touch inappropriate. He had no business being here, not after…everything. He couldn’t even fathom Harry’s reaction if he found out. No doubt he would be angry. Insulted, perhaps. But honestly, it was hard to care at this point. Harry wasn’t here anymore and his parents…well, they deserved to know. Someone needed to do this, needed to tell them what was going on with their son. The son they had died protecting.
If that someone had to be Draco, then fine.
And maybe…just maybe, talking to them would fix some of it. For him and for Harry. Maybe somehow, they could reach him, in ways that Draco had obviously failed to do. It was a sad and unrealistic thought, but he was used to those now.
So he went. Cleared the snow away carefully. Placed the flowers on the headstone.
And then he just talked.
“I haven’t heard from him since then, you know. It’s been more than two months. I don’t know where he is. Or how he is. I don’t know…if I did the right thing. Maybe I should have stopped him. Tried to fix it. Forced him to…try to fix it. I don’t think I could though. None of us could. And for that I’m sorry. You…you have to know that I tried. If I could have done it…but some things? Nobody can do them for the other person. You have to want it. Life. The future. Possibility and hope. I couldn’t make him want those things and I’m sorry. I’ll always be sorry.”
A soft breeze blew his scarf back, warm and comforting. Winter was almost over. A new day was coming.
And yet, here he was, right where it had all started.
“Could you have done it?” he asked, his throat painfully tight. “If you were still…would he have listened to you? Would he have wanted to…for you?”
There were no answers in the silence. Of course not. The dead only listened.
It was enough. It had to be.
Draco rubbed his prickling eyes and stood up. “I’ll be back soon,” he murmured.
Nothing but the slightest ruffle of the breeze. He thought he caught the scent of lilies in the air.
His lips curved in a small, sad smile. It was amazing what the mind could conjure up, when it really, really wanted to believe in something. Anything.
He walked back the way he had come, alone and emptier than he’d ever been.
****
The slim figure disappeared from view. Harry let the curtain fall. His head was pounding and his hands just wouldn’t stop shaking, no matter how much he tried to still them on the glass of Firewhisky.
It was always like this. Every time he caught a glance of Draco, he was reduced to the same state. The state he’d been in when he’d walked out on him that night.
Stupid. So fucking stupid. How could you ever let him go, you stupid, worthless…
Stop.
Please. Stop.
The voices had returned. Sometimes, they were loud. They berated and screamed in the confines of his head. Always the same things. Stupid. Worthless. Selfish. Freak.
Uncle Vernon. Cupboards under stairs. Spiders and the dark.
Other times, they were softer, gentle and pleading. Stop. Please. You’re hurting. Please stop.
Hermione. Ron. Home and safe.
Draco.
A shudder went through him. It was enough to send him reeling right back under the covers.
It’s for the best, he told himself, as firmly as he possibly could. You should never have involved him. Let him go. Leave him alone. Leave him alone.
But he couldn’t. Because in the end, he was weak.
All he could do was hide out here, in the house where his parents died and watch as the man he loved visited them week after week. Watch him bring flowers and talk to them…do the things he couldn’t find it in himself to do anymore.
Sometimes it made him angry. Angry enough to march down there and yell at Draco, grab him by the shoulders and scream in his face.
What’s the point of any of it? They’re dead. They can’t hear you. They’re gone forever.
They can’t help.
But he never did.
He just stood there, at a dusty, cracked window and watched. Because this…this was the closest he could ever come to Draco without hurting him.
And if that was the way it had to be, then fine.
It’s for the best.
Getting up was murder, but he made himself do it. Harry shivered as he palmed his wand and flared up the fireplace.
Hiding out in Godric’s Hollow was hardly pleasant but at least nobody would look for him here. Ron and Mione knew him better than he knew himself, or at least they thought they did. But even they would balk at the idea that he would set up base in this house, the one he was orphaned in.
He huffed a bitter laugh.
This is what it takes.
The house was a decrepit wreck, but it would do. Until he figured out what to do next. Where to go from here.
The DMLE was out of the question now. He knew that for certain. Kingsley couldn’t fire him- not without causing a huge stink, at least- but he just couldn’t make himself do it anymore. He wasn’t an Auror. Hadn’t been for a long time.
He was…something else. A hunter. An avenger. The last man standing in a war that had ended years ago.
There was no point in pretending. He sneered as he palmed a letter with the Minister’s seal. It had arrived just yesterday. They still sent his mail to his old flat. Thankfully, the owl service he used was discrete and forwarded his mail with a different bird every time. The screech owl that showed up this morning brought the letter and a copy of the Prophet.
The Prophet was standard fare, living up to its reputation as a purveyor of substandard journalism. The headlines blazed across the front page.
WHERE IS HARRY POTTER: SAVIOUR STILL MISSING AFTER TWO MONTHS (A Prophet Exclusive)
Harry growled low in his throat and crumpled it up. If Ron couldn’t find him, he doubted that the weasels at the Prophet could. But that wasn’t going to stop them from trying. They were probably combing through his every connection at this moment, cornering his friends and demanding answers they didn’t have.
Would they go after Draco, he wondered. Would they invade his privacy? Spread baseless rumours? Make his life harder than it already was?
The idea of Draco suffering even more on his account was almost intolerable, so he put it out of his mind. He would keep an eye on it, he decided. If they did go after Draco, he would find a way to take care of it. Permanently.
The letter was…interesting. Harry scanned it briefly. The loopy, self-important script didn’t change the fact that it was obviously written in a hurry by a shaky hand. The Minister was unhappy, unsure of how to handle the mounting press. Surely, the letter expressed, given the excellent work he had done in keeping the country safe, Harry wouldn’t object to making a public statement on behalf of the Ministry. Of course, an Order of Merlin First Class was a given, considering his record and the Minister was happy to see it through but it would be so very helpful if Harry could make an appearance as soon as possible.
Bribes. To keep him happy. To keep him quiet.
It was enough to make him want to set something on fire.
So he did. Harry grit his teeth and tossed the fucking letter into the flames. He poured another glass of whisky with shaking hands. Rage bubbled under the surface, making his head pound and his insides churn.
Can’t do it anymore can’t do it anymore can’t do it…
The pain in his head grew sharper and his anger made his vision blur.
He had lost everything. Everyone.
And what did he have to show for it?
Empty applause and a shiny plaque to shut him up and make him play nice.
The Prophet still lay on the table, his face and that god-awful headline staring back at him. Harry sneered and picked it up again, scanning the print for a name. The Editor, maybe. Or a journalist. Not Skeeter but at this point, he wasn't exactly picky.
Any one of the weasels would do.
So the Minister wanted a public statement, did he?
Fine.
Then that was exactly what he was going to get.
Author: dracogotgame
Word Count: 3,000
Rating: R
Warning: Angst.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. This was written for fun, not profit.
Author's Notes: Hi y'all. Remember me? *raises hand sheepishly* I have been gone...just a little less than a year now, and I am so sorry. I've had a weird, weird year. Nothing to write home about but it was long and hard (lol, pun intended) and I am so thankful 2017 is going bye bye. Maybe 2018 will be less of a shit-tornado. Anyway, I am doing quite okay (although time is still an issue) and I figured Christmas is as good a time as any to bring back this fic (which is absolutely not abandoned, the author is just a lazy jerk). I love you all, and have missed you greatly. Thank you for all the birthday wishes (which I will answer as soon as possible). In the meantime presenting part 19 of the Walk of Shame Series. Merry Christmas, fandom friends. May this year bring you all the joy and happiness you deserve.
Two months later:
The cold was receding.
As Draco walked the now familiar, cobbled streets of this small village, he wondered if he should have bothered with a scarf at all. The sunlight was weak and quickly cowed by murky clouds, but there was a stubborn warmth in the air. The fresh scent of new leaves and blooming buds flittered in the breeze. The snow had melted into grey slush, clinging stubbornly to the soles of his shoes.
So, it was official.
Winter was over. And spring, against all odds, was finally here.
Draco absently wondered if he was a fool to hope for better this time around. He, of all people, should be wary. The scars of last winter still lingered, barely skin-deep. Sometimes, they still got him off guard. The sound of fading footsteps and the door closing shut for the final time still came for him in the stillness of the night, threatening to upend his progress. Sometimes, in his most shameful moments, the grief overpowered him. Sometimes, he broke down and wept all over again. It left him feeling exhausted and defeated. It was like nothing had changed at all.
But in spite of those moments of hopelessness and the lingering grief that just refused to be put to rest, he knew it wasn’t like last time. He knew it was different.
Because this time, he wasn’t being dragged down by that one last shred of hope. How could he when the truth was staring him right in the face?
Harry was gone. He had walked out of Draco’s life that day and seemingly disappeared off the face of the earth.
In the week that followed, Draco would come to realise how accurate that analogy was.
First, Harry stopped coming into work. This wasn’t such a shock to those who knew the immediate situation. Hermione suggested that Harry had been through a severe emotional upheaval and probably needed time to process it. Ron pointed out that he was technically still fired. Kingsley hadn’t backed down yet so there was hardly any point in Harry being there and he probably knew it. And Draco…well, Draco tried not to read too much into it. However, when two weeks went by and both Ron and Hermione claimed they hadn’t received so much as an owl from Harry, it did worry him. He tried to tell himself it wasn’t any of his business. He and Harry were done. It hurt but the plain and simple truth was that Harry didn’t want to get better, he didn’t want to move on…and maybe, maybe the only thing left to do now was to respect his wishes and leave him alone.
Still, the anxiety lingered. And he tried not to, he really did, but a part of him remained wary and alert, on the look-out for any news.
Bit by bit, more pieces of Harry disappeared. One day, maybe a month into the whole mess, Ron showed up at the Archives and claimed that Harry’s old flat-the place he’d been staying at before he moved in with Draco- had been cleared. Everything he owned was gone. He was all but moved out and he hadn’t told a soul he was leaving town. Ron was justifiably angry when he broke the news, but the faint hint of hurt in his tone was unmistakable and Draco took great care not to bring it up. Sometimes, it was easy to forget that he wasn’t the only one Harry had abandoned.
A few days after that, the news of Harry’s mission leaked to the press. Even two months later, Draco still remembered the headline blazed across the Prophet’s front page.
HE’S DONE IT AGAIN
Saviour Singlehandedly Foils Domestic Terrorist Operation
The whole thing snowballed from there. It didn’t take long for the press hounds to figure out that Harry was missing. Shacklebolt didn’t exactly help. The Head Auror’s telling silence and outright refusal to comment on anything from his Star Auror’s whereabouts to the specifics of the mission itself, sent the rumour mills working overtime. The conspiracy theories came fast, each more ridiculous than the last.
Harry was on another top secret mission in Europe. He was receiving an Order of Merlin, Second Class. He was dead- killed in action during the ‘mission’ Shacklebolt didn’t want to talk about, and if it wasn’t true where was he and why couldn’t anybody explain his absence?
Naturally, when nothing substantial turned up at the Ministry, the vultures came for Harry’s inner circle.
Thankfully, Hermione had seen the storm brewing a mile away and figured out how to head it off at the pass. A few medical files moved, some dates changed, a hastily filled prescription and an anonymous note to the Prophet’s editor, and suddenly, it was common knowledge that Auror Potter was recovering from a bout of exhaustion and was taking a well-deserved leave of absence, whereabouts not disclosed.
It worked like a charm. Draco, who had initially balked at the brazenness of the lie, was both bemused and grudgingly impressed- grudgingly impressed by Hermione’s resourcefulness, bemused by how ridiculously proud Ron was of her deviousness- by how effortlessly the whole thing had blown over.
It was risky, but it bought them more time. It bought Draco more time. To…process things. While the world continued to turn and Harry went from the talk-of-the-town to last week’s news, Draco struggled in private, coming to terms with his choices. There weren’t many.
He could be angry and bitter. He could hurt. He could push down everything until it didn’t hurt so much. He could forget all about Harry and go back to the way things had been one Christmas ago.
Or…or he could let it in. He could accept the pain. He could acknowledge the anger. He could live with what had happened, and let it become a part of him.
Because the truth was, he didn’t want to forget Harry.
The last time Harry had left him, half conscious in front of a dying fire, he had felt like he’d lost everything. In that moment, he would have given everything he owned to forget Harry. The pain was so great, and the effort to block it out was so exhausting. Harry had destroyed him then, he really had. But- and as hard as it was to admit- Harry had also put him back together. He’d been drifting before Harry came into his life, hiding in shadows and parchment and watching the world go by with a growing sense of hopelessness and resentment. It was Harry who pulled him into the light.
In the end, Draco couldn’t return the favour. He couldn’t…make Harry come back. He couldn’t force him to get the help he needed. He would always regret it bitterly.
But that didn’t mean he had to stop loving Harry. He was in too deep for that. It was too late to stop. It had been for a long time.
So, he realised that he would just have to live with it. All of it. The love and the pain and the joy and the hurt.
And that’s when he started doing this.
He’d grown the lilies himself. It wasn’t the season, and it had taken four attempts and several variations of a Blooming Charm he’d come across in the Archive’s Herbology section. They probably wouldn’t last a day in the cold, but…he wanted to bring them anyway.
After all, he thought with a smile, it would be rude to visit Harry’s mum and not bring flowers.
****
It was peaceful out here.
The cemetery was quiet and deserted at this time of the day. Not that Draco had anticipated a rush. No one ever came here, as far as he could tell from his many visits.
He wondered why he did it, sometimes.
Coming to terms with Harry’s departure had led him down some strange paths. After the obligatory moping and feeling sorry for himself, he turned his efforts towards understanding. There were so many unresolved questions. He just...needed answers. The realisation that he didn’t really know Harry as well as he thought had been jarring. It was a quest for closure that led him to reading old Prophet articles (most of them horrendously inaccurate) before turning to the only people he knew who could give him the real story.
Ron and Hermione had been honest and supportive, if a little perplexed by his sudden interest in Harry’s past. Ron, ever the loyalist, was wary of revealing things that he considered Harry’s business and Harry’s business only. Nevertheless, he did try, and Draco was grateful for that. Hermione’s concerns were more pragmatic. She worried about Draco ‘hanging on to the past’ and losing himself - a reasonable fear given the state her best friends had ended up in. Draco did his best to assuage her concerns, and eventually, hesitantly, she told him about another Christmas, a long time ago when she and Harry had found themselves in the little known town of Godric’s Hollow. She had conjured flowers for Harry’s parents that night. She teared up when she spoke about it, and not for the first time, Draco was bitterly ashamed of his younger self and how he had once treated this brave, wonderful woman.
He never told her he went to Godric’s Hollow that same day.
To be honest, he probably couldn’t explain it to her if he’d tried. He didn’t really understand it either-why he’d gone there in the first place, or why he’d visited a dozen or so times since. All he knew was that the first glance of that lonely, quiet grave-site had stayed with him. They were untended to, buried deep in the snow with nothing to show they’d been ever visited save a shrivelled wreath of flowers. It was obvious that nobody had been here for a long time. Years, perhaps.
The idea that Harry hadn’t, or perhaps couldn’t bring himself to visit his parents for this long…it had saddened him.
And more than anything, Draco was sick and tired of being sad. So he decided that if Harry wouldn’t visit his parents, then he would do it.
Maybe it was a touch inappropriate. He had no business being here, not after…everything. He couldn’t even fathom Harry’s reaction if he found out. No doubt he would be angry. Insulted, perhaps. But honestly, it was hard to care at this point. Harry wasn’t here anymore and his parents…well, they deserved to know. Someone needed to do this, needed to tell them what was going on with their son. The son they had died protecting.
If that someone had to be Draco, then fine.
And maybe…just maybe, talking to them would fix some of it. For him and for Harry. Maybe somehow, they could reach him, in ways that Draco had obviously failed to do. It was a sad and unrealistic thought, but he was used to those now.
So he went. Cleared the snow away carefully. Placed the flowers on the headstone.
And then he just talked.
“I haven’t heard from him since then, you know. It’s been more than two months. I don’t know where he is. Or how he is. I don’t know…if I did the right thing. Maybe I should have stopped him. Tried to fix it. Forced him to…try to fix it. I don’t think I could though. None of us could. And for that I’m sorry. You…you have to know that I tried. If I could have done it…but some things? Nobody can do them for the other person. You have to want it. Life. The future. Possibility and hope. I couldn’t make him want those things and I’m sorry. I’ll always be sorry.”
A soft breeze blew his scarf back, warm and comforting. Winter was almost over. A new day was coming.
And yet, here he was, right where it had all started.
“Could you have done it?” he asked, his throat painfully tight. “If you were still…would he have listened to you? Would he have wanted to…for you?”
There were no answers in the silence. Of course not. The dead only listened.
It was enough. It had to be.
Draco rubbed his prickling eyes and stood up. “I’ll be back soon,” he murmured.
Nothing but the slightest ruffle of the breeze. He thought he caught the scent of lilies in the air.
His lips curved in a small, sad smile. It was amazing what the mind could conjure up, when it really, really wanted to believe in something. Anything.
He walked back the way he had come, alone and emptier than he’d ever been.
****
The slim figure disappeared from view. Harry let the curtain fall. His head was pounding and his hands just wouldn’t stop shaking, no matter how much he tried to still them on the glass of Firewhisky.
It was always like this. Every time he caught a glance of Draco, he was reduced to the same state. The state he’d been in when he’d walked out on him that night.
Stupid. So fucking stupid. How could you ever let him go, you stupid, worthless…
Stop.
Please. Stop.
The voices had returned. Sometimes, they were loud. They berated and screamed in the confines of his head. Always the same things. Stupid. Worthless. Selfish. Freak.
Uncle Vernon. Cupboards under stairs. Spiders and the dark.
Other times, they were softer, gentle and pleading. Stop. Please. You’re hurting. Please stop.
Hermione. Ron. Home and safe.
Draco.
A shudder went through him. It was enough to send him reeling right back under the covers.
It’s for the best, he told himself, as firmly as he possibly could. You should never have involved him. Let him go. Leave him alone. Leave him alone.
But he couldn’t. Because in the end, he was weak.
All he could do was hide out here, in the house where his parents died and watch as the man he loved visited them week after week. Watch him bring flowers and talk to them…do the things he couldn’t find it in himself to do anymore.
Sometimes it made him angry. Angry enough to march down there and yell at Draco, grab him by the shoulders and scream in his face.
What’s the point of any of it? They’re dead. They can’t hear you. They’re gone forever.
They can’t help.
But he never did.
He just stood there, at a dusty, cracked window and watched. Because this…this was the closest he could ever come to Draco without hurting him.
And if that was the way it had to be, then fine.
It’s for the best.
Getting up was murder, but he made himself do it. Harry shivered as he palmed his wand and flared up the fireplace.
Hiding out in Godric’s Hollow was hardly pleasant but at least nobody would look for him here. Ron and Mione knew him better than he knew himself, or at least they thought they did. But even they would balk at the idea that he would set up base in this house, the one he was orphaned in.
He huffed a bitter laugh.
This is what it takes.
The house was a decrepit wreck, but it would do. Until he figured out what to do next. Where to go from here.
The DMLE was out of the question now. He knew that for certain. Kingsley couldn’t fire him- not without causing a huge stink, at least- but he just couldn’t make himself do it anymore. He wasn’t an Auror. Hadn’t been for a long time.
He was…something else. A hunter. An avenger. The last man standing in a war that had ended years ago.
There was no point in pretending. He sneered as he palmed a letter with the Minister’s seal. It had arrived just yesterday. They still sent his mail to his old flat. Thankfully, the owl service he used was discrete and forwarded his mail with a different bird every time. The screech owl that showed up this morning brought the letter and a copy of the Prophet.
The Prophet was standard fare, living up to its reputation as a purveyor of substandard journalism. The headlines blazed across the front page.
WHERE IS HARRY POTTER: SAVIOUR STILL MISSING AFTER TWO MONTHS (A Prophet Exclusive)
Harry growled low in his throat and crumpled it up. If Ron couldn’t find him, he doubted that the weasels at the Prophet could. But that wasn’t going to stop them from trying. They were probably combing through his every connection at this moment, cornering his friends and demanding answers they didn’t have.
Would they go after Draco, he wondered. Would they invade his privacy? Spread baseless rumours? Make his life harder than it already was?
The idea of Draco suffering even more on his account was almost intolerable, so he put it out of his mind. He would keep an eye on it, he decided. If they did go after Draco, he would find a way to take care of it. Permanently.
The letter was…interesting. Harry scanned it briefly. The loopy, self-important script didn’t change the fact that it was obviously written in a hurry by a shaky hand. The Minister was unhappy, unsure of how to handle the mounting press. Surely, the letter expressed, given the excellent work he had done in keeping the country safe, Harry wouldn’t object to making a public statement on behalf of the Ministry. Of course, an Order of Merlin First Class was a given, considering his record and the Minister was happy to see it through but it would be so very helpful if Harry could make an appearance as soon as possible.
Bribes. To keep him happy. To keep him quiet.
It was enough to make him want to set something on fire.
So he did. Harry grit his teeth and tossed the fucking letter into the flames. He poured another glass of whisky with shaking hands. Rage bubbled under the surface, making his head pound and his insides churn.
Can’t do it anymore can’t do it anymore can’t do it…
The pain in his head grew sharper and his anger made his vision blur.
He had lost everything. Everyone.
And what did he have to show for it?
Empty applause and a shiny plaque to shut him up and make him play nice.
The Prophet still lay on the table, his face and that god-awful headline staring back at him. Harry sneered and picked it up again, scanning the print for a name. The Editor, maybe. Or a journalist. Not Skeeter but at this point, he wasn't exactly picky.
Any one of the weasels would do.
So the Minister wanted a public statement, did he?
Fine.
Then that was exactly what he was going to get.