Everything on Fire

Part III: Everything on Fire

(Or, Silhouettes in the Smoke)

Oh, how it burns me up
To my very soul
Oh, I can't get enough
When it's burning out of control
-Nylons, "Wildfire"

- -

The answers are in the smoke.

But are you asking the right questions?

- -

The room is dark and empty, and there are no windows, and there is no light. Harry feels comfortable here, the darkness like a cloak. It protects and hides and does all of the other things Harry thinks he needs.

Harry has never slept in the dungeons before, and although, in his own dormitory, he complains incessantly about there being too much noise and too much light for him to get to sleep, he can't seem to sleep here, where the absence of noise and light is complete.

He doesn't understand it, but then again he does. Sort of. Life always did enjoy those subtle ironies.

In his dorm room, in his soft, scarlet and gold bed, Harry lies alone, where his only company are his down pillows, his dreams and the moonlight that spills through the windows of the tower and leaks through the drapes of his four poster.

But here, in prefect room number thirteen, Harry is not alone.

There are pillows, but there are no dreams. There is no moonlight, only moonlight flesh, which is smooth and warm and slightly sticky.

So Harry lies awake, Malfoy curled in close to him as he sleeps, and he speculates if it's even still night. The darkness is so whole, so complete--yes, he did say that already, didn't he? --that, when Harry closes his eyes, nothing changes. He blinks so many times, trying to distinguish between the darkness behind his eyelids and the room, that he loses track of whether his eyes are open or not.

Harry can't remember what is open and what is closed. All he knows is the darkness, and its completeness, and the body next to him, warm and solid and so very open it hurts.

This is Malfoy without his barriers up, defenseless and unguarded, and Harry knows that he could turn over and smother Malfoy with those soft down pillows under his head if he wanted to, and Malfoy couldn't do a thing about it until it was too late. Or he could accio his wand and cast a spell on Malfoy, and then he would finally have some light, something nice and green and calming.

But Harry is content at the moment, and Malfoy's skin is so perfectly warm next to his. So Harry doesn't move; he waits in the darkness just a little bit longer.

- -

"Are you leaving?"

Malfoy's voice is fogged with sleep, like those early mornings when Harry used to go running, and all he could see were the tips of the trees in the distance and his legs as they pumped back and forth. Malfoy stretches, toes curling and back arching, nothing but white skin and smooth muscle for miles, except for the dark shadows on his hips, spidery bruises in the shape of fingers. Harry's fingers, to be precise.

"Obviously," Harry says, looking away. He picks up his pants from the ground and doesn't look at Malfoy as he tugs them on.

"Why?" Malfoy asks, his voice clearer.

Harry thinks the answer should be evident. He looks at Malfoy and wonders what has gotten into his head. Malfoy holds Harry's gaze for a moment before looking away, one hand rubbing his chest while the other pulls a sheet over his lower half.

Harry looks away and searches the room for his belt.

"What if I wanted you to stay?" Malfoy asks, voice small, and Harry only wants to find his damn belt. Where the hell did he throw it?

The tension in the air makes it hard for Harry to focus, and he can't really remember what his belt looks like anymore. All he can see is the Malfoy from last night, whose heart was broken so he gave his body to Harry, hoping that he wouldn't break that too, and whose tears tasted like stale dreams, who held onto Harry as if he was never letting go.

"Would you stay if I asked?"

Harry turns to look at him, and is surprised to see the same Malfoy from last night looking back. Still holding on.

"No," Harry says suddenly, hard. "So don't bother asking."

He doesn't want to see Malfoy's reaction, so he turns his head to the side, and instantly he spots his belt. He quickly picks it up and loops it into his pants.

"Fuck you, Potter," Malfoy whispers, and Harry smiles.

"I haven't the time right now, Malfoy," he says. He moves to grab his cloak, but stops as something crinkles under his step. Bending to retrieve the offending object, Harry realizes it is the Ministry's black envelope. It is in perfect condition, this envelope, crisp and smooth and completely intact; the only sign of disturbance is in the seal, the black wax split perfectly in two. It is so perfect that it seems disfigured somehow.

Harry looks at Malfoy, who is looking at the envelope.

"You should really throw this away," Harry says, flicking the envelope at Malfoy. It lands on his chest, black corners seeming to slice into white skin like the blade of a knife, bleeding in duotones of gray.

Malfoy's face scrunches up, and anybody else would have thought it was from anger, but Harry knows the different faces of Malfoy's anger like he knows the grain of his own wand: holly, phoenix feather, eleven inches. And this is something else. Something Harry isn't familiar with.

"Is that what you did with the letter about Black?" Malfoy asks, lips pursed tightly.

Harry looks at him, then at the envelope, so very black on Malfoy's white skin. He doesn't know how Malfoy knows about Sirius, probably his father told him, which leads Harry to wonder what other secrets of his Malfoy knows.

Malfoy nods, triumphant. Envelope in hand, he gets up from his bed, sheet wrapped around him and trailing after like a waterfall of dark cotton, and walks over to his desk on the other side of the room, brushing past Harry. He takes a seat and props the envelope up against an empty picture frame, then turns to look at Harry. Malfoy's eyes are red and his hands are clenched.

Harry doesn't answer. He turns and gathers his cloak, and when he turns back, Malfoy is no longer looking at him, but at the empty picture frame. His hands lay open before him, palms up, and the muscles in his back and shoulders are tense.

"Are you leaving?" Malfoy asks again.

And this time Harry does leave, ignoring the tears Malfoy fights that ask him to stay.

- -

Draco listens to Harry's footsteps until all that is left is silence.

Draco likes the silence. It is calm and simple, and Draco doesn't like to interrupt it.

His father told him once that it would all end with a curse and a bang, and that pride would always come before the fall, but what a glorious fallout it would be.

That was Draco's childhood. Teachings of family pride and upheld honor and downfalls of memorable grandeur, with no deviation from the bang it was all going to end in. His father taught him all the ways to be cold, to be cruel, to take what you wanted and to use it.

His father said that if it was all going to end in a curse and a bang, better to be at the center of it on your own account than on the outskirts without a choice, backing yourself against a wall while the singes lick your boots.

But Draco's mother told him it would end in a rush of air and a quiet touch, cool and warm at the same time.

Draco never believed his mother. It seemed too good to be true. Too sweet to ever be real.

But now he wonders. He wonders if she felt that cool rush of air and the warm, silent touch, or was it a bang and a curse? Draco's mother never cursed, but-- Was she scared? Had she run from her bedroom in her chiffon nightgown and called for help? Or had she waited, knowing? She had been having a difficult time, Draco knows, after his father's sentencing, and Draco also knows that he should have written her more, smiled at her more, talked with her more when he was home.

The last letter she wrote him still lies sealed in his desk, tied neatly to a small wicker basket full of assorted cookies and cakes with a white ribbon, always a write ribbon.

His father wore black and spoke with a nightingale's tenor, but his mother was all ivory, creamy white motions and early morning smiles.

And suddenly her memory is so strong that Draco thinks she's there with him, standing by his side, hand on his shoulder-- He can feel the warmth of her skin. He can smell her perfume, lilacs and something sweet. He can see her out of the corner of his eye, she is pale and perfect and her hands are freshly manicured. He wants so badly to turn to her, to bury his head in her neck and have her wrap her arms around him and to tell her... to tell her... that he... he...

A sob wracks Draco's frame and he buries his head in his arms and there is so much. So much he could have told her, so much he wanted to tell her, so much he needs to tell her. And he wasted so much time, writing letters to his father that would never be read, telling him everything he should have been telling her.

His sobs are uncontrollable and violent; they jerk his entire body and he feels like his lungs are going to close up on him and all he wants is to breathe again, but he can't remember. All he can remember is his mother.

His first memory is of the folds of her robes, soft and thick, as he lies against her as a child, drifting to sleep on the notes of her lullaby. He remembers when she took him to the beach for the first time when he was six years old and they stood at the edge of the water together and the hem of her expensive dress got wet, but she told him as she smiled that she didn't care. She inclined her head to the right whenever she listened intently, and her long hair fell like a velvet stage curtain over her shoulder and the smile she gave him was different from all of the others, one for every occasion and every face, but a different one for Draco.

She was tall and slender and her fingers were long and, yes, he must have loved her, he must have.

Draco feels his chest clench tightly and then ease, and finally he can breathe again, short, shallow breaths that make him feel light headed. He lifts his head and wipes his eyes, looking around. He expects to see... something. But there is only nothing. Only four walls and mussed sheets and that black envelope.

Draco thinks this is rather fitting.

And then when he is done thinking, finished with imagining and remembering and doing anything at all, Draco is at a loss of what to do next.

- -

"What're you doing here, Finnigan?"

Draco stops at the entryway to the greenhouse, shocked to see the expectedly messy form of Potter replaced with that of Seamus Finnigan. He takes in the sandy blonde hair and light blue eyes with growing impatience.

"Lost again?" Draco asks snidely.

Finnigan only grins at Draco, undaunted. "Hardly," he says.

Something snaps under Draco's foot as he steps fully into the greenhouse. Draco suspects it had been his patience. "Where's Potter?" he bites.

The grin widens. "I offered to give Harry a day off from you, Malfoy, and he gladly accepted." Draco's stomach flips at his words, but he shows no signs of it. "I expect that he and Dean are probably in the middle of warding up the Ravenclaw dormitory right about now."

"He what?" Draco asks, though he heard Finnigan perfectly.

Finnigan's smile falters. "He's working with Dean today," he says, words becoming colder until Draco can almost feel the chill. "There's only so much of you one person can stand before they go running for the hills. You should know that by now."

Draco knows he should do something. Say something. Remind Finnigan of why everyone thinks he's such an arrogant bastard, and of why that assessment is completely true. Finnigan's father is a Muggle; it would be all too easy. But he also knows that Finnigan hasn't forgotten what a bastard Draco is supposed to be, and Draco is so very tired right now, too tired to go around reminding people.

He sighs and runs a hand over his eyes. "Right then. Let's get to work then, shall we?"

Finnigan looks at him strangely, as though really seeing him for the first time, and Draco feels cold and exposed under his stare, the final leaf in autumn as it finally falls. Draco glares, breaking Finnigan's stupor.

Finnigan clears his throat. "Right. I mean-- right, yeah."

They work quickly and silently, speaking only when necessary and unavoidable: when they can't remember the incantations for the spell, or to assist the other, or when Draco threatens Finnigan's life for stepping on his toe. Yes, yes, necessary and unavoidable.

There is a certain simplicity to working with Finnigan that Draco enjoys. There is no tension between them, no prickling of something more on the tip of Draco's fingers, urging him to reach out and simply touch. There is no animosity; no thick, solid hatred, as real to Draco as the sweetly tanned flesh and lightning-scarred skin that Draco so longs for. Between Finnigan and himself, Draco sees only indifference, something easy and cool and fluid, like clean and water down a porcelain drain.

His father had always said that clean water was wasted water.

"Malfoy," Finnigan says suddenly, before Draco casts another spell on the interior, "Can I ask you a question?"

Draco gives him a sidelong look before resuming the spell. Finnigan takes this as a yes.

"Why are you still here?" Draco can hear the honest curiosity in Finnigan's voice as the red-dotted shield of Draco's ward takes full form. "Why haven't you gone home to hide in your manor, like we all expected you to do?"

The fact that there is no longer a manor to hide in hits Draco with the force of... of-- he doesn't even know of anything powerful enough to describe it. The ocean? The sky? The stars? All of it, all at once? Yes, that's it. A celestial, apocalyptic explosion in a universe empty save Draco.

It's all coming down, isn't it? Don't look up, his father would say, the sky is falling. Ripping and shredding and roaring and Draco never got to say goodbye--to who? --to who? --And then just as quickly as the universe ended, it rights itself again.

There is solid ground beneath his feet and a sky above his head, and all is right with this world--and Draco's too, he tells himself.

Draco answers, fighting to keep his voice steady, "It's boring there."

He sees Finnigan nod slowly out of the corner of his eye.

Draco turns suddenly. "I think we've done our share for the day, Finnigan," he says quickly, moving towards the eastern exit of the greenhouse. Finnigan only watches him, a look of bewilderment on his face.

"Be seeing you," Draco hears Finnigan say weakly as he steps out of the greenhouse and onto Hogwarts' grounds. The smell of smoke assaults Draco immediately, stinging his eyes. He walks without knowing where to go, and he does not look at the sky.

Just in case.

- -

You can't catch the smoke.

You can only follow it and breathe it in and let it settle into ashes over your heart.

You can't catch the smoke.

- -

Today, day fifty-five, Malfoy is waiting for Harry at the Fat Lady's portrait when he comes back from warding the Ravenclaw girls' dormitory. There is a dark look in his eyes and Harry knows.

A part of him finds this all very funny, but he doesn't laugh. He grabs Malfoy's hand and pulls him through the portrait hole, whispering the password against Malfoy's lips as they fall backwards, always seeming to fall backwards.

Harry doesn't take Malfoy to his dormitory. He takes him to the boys' loo and throws him against the far wall and mutters a locking spell under his breath as Malfoy tilts his head back, exposing his neck. Harry nips at the angular corner of Malfoy's jaw and breathes deeply the smoky smell of his hair, hands deftly unfastening the clever buttons on Malfoy's robes. He pushes the robes from Malfoy's shoulders and feels them pool around his feet.

Harry feels fingers bunching at his Muggle t-shirt in an attempt at removing the thing, but he knocks Malfoy's hands away and kisses him so fiercely that he hears the crack of Malfoy's head against the cool tile wall. Malfoy's lips are hot and he tastes like smoke, and Harry always knew that Malfoy liked to play with fire, but he was never certain just how much.

And Harry never realized until now how much he could enjoy it.

Malfoy's hands trim the hem of Harry's shirt and he knocks them away again, harder this time, and he shoves Malfoy further into the wall, putting more distance between them before Harry closes it himself, pressing solidly against Malfoy, who presses just as firmly back. He holds Malfoy's shoulder against the wall with one hand, and Harry knows there will be bruises there tomorrow, which only makes him push harder. Malfoy groans in his mouth and Harry doesn't know if it's from pleasure or pain or both, and he shoves his other hand into Draco's trousers, suddenly and without undoing the buttons first.

Malfoy yelps and bites down on Harry's lip and Harry smiles, grasping Malfoy's firmly in his hands. Harry kisses the side of Malfoy's mouth roughly, eyes on the grit of the bathroom wall. There is a broken tile in the wall just above Malfoy's shoulder that Harry watches, dented inward and split awkwardly in two. He doesn't remember seeing it before.

- -

"Is that how you like it?"

Harry makes a face at Malfoy, who is standing in front of the bathroom mirror, watching Harry in the reflection as he leans against the far wall. Malfoy's hands grip the edges of the sink, porcelain on porcelain.

"Don't be foul," Harry says sharply.

"Don't be all prim now, Potter," Malfoy snaps back. He sighs. "And you know that isn't what I meant."

Harry knows no such thing, but he lets it drop with a shake of his head.

"Is it?" Malfoy asks again.

Harry doesn't look up. The bathroom's copenhagen blue tiles remind him of the sky, the bordering white grout like clouds. Harry remembers the sky.

"Is this what you want, Potter?" Malfoy's voice is sharp, like the angles of his hips and shoulders, straight as can be. "Some dirty fuck in a dirty bathroom?"

"I don't know what I want, Malfoy," Harry says honestly. "But for now..." Harry hesitates, not knowing what to call it, "This is enough for me."

Malfoy turns away from the mirror to look at him directly, and Harry notices that his eyes are almost the same color as the tiles. Less blue, more gray. But Harry can still see the sky in them.

He looks as if he's about to say something, but hesitates. Instead he says, "My father told me that everything would end in a bang and a curse, but my mother always said it would be a rush of air and a soft touch. Which do you think it is?"

Harry considers for a moment.

"Neither," he says finally. "It'll be over before you know what's happened, and by then, you'll be gone."

- -

Everybody tells Draco something different.

Dumbledore tells him that he is free to do what he wants, that there are no lingering precursors on Draco's name, despite the fact that they both know there are. He tells him in that unbiased, unprejudiced, unnatural tone of voice that Draco is free to do whatever he wants, due to current circumstances, and that, of course, Dumbledore will always be there for him in his time of need and decision. And then he tells Draco that he is sorry for his loss, but Draco doesn't think he is.

Snape tells him that he understands, and Draco thinks that he might, though not completely. He asks Draco to tea in his office and they talk, words that have a sum of comfort, but a difference of nothing. He refuses to pour Draco's tea for him and he roughly tells Draco that such is life and he doesn't treat him like a broken heart, and for that Draco is thankful.

Draco's father doesn't tell him anything, but that's okay, because he's already told Draco everything he needs to know.

His mother's will tells him that he is the sole proprietor of Malfoy Manor (or rather, what's left) and the Malfoy Gringotts account. She tells him goodbye and I love you through a letter in her will, charmed such that he is, and will ever be, the only one able to read it. By doing this she tells Draco that he will never have to rely on any one else. She tells him that he is free.

The other students tell him that they are sorry for his loss the next evening at dinner in the Great Hall as they all clutter the staff table. Seamus Finnigan asks that they have a moment of silence and they all bow their heads over their chicken soup and hope that it never happens to them.

Harry tells him that it is day sixty-three, and Draco has no idea what that means. Draco doesn't understand Harry, and so he tells him just that. Harry acts like he doesn't hear him.

But the fires tell Draco the most. They whisper in smoke and live on disaster, they breathe it in and close their eyes to it at night and say this is all you need, this is all you need, as the wind brings them ever closer and their flames light up the night sky.

- -

"You're late."

Draco looks up from the far corner of the greenhouse at the sound of Harry's footsteps.

Harry stops a few paces away. His hand comes up and he touches the corner of his mouth, tugging slightly on his bottom lip. This reminds Draco of when they kiss, of when Draco would sometimes bite Harry's lower lip and pull, just so.

"I didn't know there was a set time," Harry says, dropping his hand. There is no note of defensiveness or apology in his voice--what's there to be sorry for, he would have asked in all seriousness--only honesty, that harsh and sour honestly that leaves Draco with the taste of vinegar and Harry on his tongue.

They've been meeting in the greenhouse for a week now, every night, two hours after nightfall but never more--until tonight. The greenhouse has, in Draco's mind, become theirs. The vibrations of their magic hang in the air with the protection wards, as invisible and real as the glass itself. Draco sees the scenes of their time together in these glass walls, playing like a silent Muggle movie in the background, a glossy projection of questions that go unasked and touches that try not to linger.

This has become their routine, and one-sided as it is, Draco cannot come to break it.

So he lets the issue drop with a slump of his shoulders, and Harry, sensing that he's won the point, closes the distance between them and comes to stand beside Draco.

"It's close," Harry says suddenly, looking through the glass wall that Draco has his back to. Draco doesn't have to ask to know what he's talking about.

There is an orange glow on Harry's skin and around the greenhouse, and Draco can see something brighter than just the forest trees reflected on Harry's glasses. Draco didn't even bother with any light when he arrived. There was enough coming from the forest.

"Tomorrow, do you think?" Draco asks, looking away.

Harry shakes his head. "Tonight." He stops for a moment. "The wind is pretty strong. It's moving quick."

Draco only nods. He doesn't know what else to say.

The wards were completed earlier that morning with the south parameter of the castle, and Dumbledore had thanked them all and bid them do what they please. Most of the other students spent the day relaxing, playing chess and talking and laughing, always so much laughter. But Draco went to the Astronomy Tower and watched the smoke gather and spread. He wrote letters to his mother and tried to catch the smoke with his hands and came back with ash on his fingertips.

He thought he had it once, the smoke. But it was only ash.

There is warmth on his face and his fingers come away wet when he touches his cheek. Draco stares at the moisture on his fingertips in confusion. Another hand circles Draco's, this one tanner, harder, there are veins on the back and calluses at the joints. Harry's. He closes Draco's hand within his, and Draco feels the moisture smearing, thinning, spreading wider over his and Harry's skin. He looks at Harry and sees himself on the clean glass of his spectacles, a pale reflection of a boy with a smoke-stained face and one clean smudge of white skin on his left cheek.

Every time Draco looks at Harry, he never sees what he wants to see. There is always something else looking back at him, something that tears him up inside and loves to stomp on the little pieces, something that calls for the crows. This is no exception.

For once he only wants to see Harry, to know that he's there with him, really there, but Draco only sees himself, and he has never felt more alone.

He reaches for Harry's glasses, but Harry knocks his hands away, stepping back. Draco tries again, regaining the step, but again Harry slaps away his reaching hand.

Draco looks at Harry harshly and sees himself glaring back. He feels that same slow shredding in his chest and hears a distant cawing in the back of his mind and he thinks briefly of first year, when every spell and charm Finnigan tried for over a month only exploded in his face, and then he is lunging at Harry and his hands are going for his glasses, and his reflection is reaching back, hands almost touching before Harry turns and grabs Draco's arm, shoving him away and into the glass wall.

The side of Draco's head cracks against the glass and his vision blinks out for a moment, head spinning. Harry's knees knock into the back of Draco's, forcing them to give, and Draco falls backward only to be caught and them slammed against the glass again.

"Do I even want to know, Malfoy?" Harry whispers fiercely into Draco's ear, pulling Draco's left arm around his back until he hisses in pain. Harry's other arm is locked against the back of Draco's neck, pressing his face into the cold glass wall. "Do I even want to know why you're attacking me?"

"Harry, I only--"

A sharp pull on Draco's left arm silences him. The pain is automatic, like a Muggle light switch, you flip it one way and the pain is blinding, the other way and it's gone. Pain like fire slices up Draco's left side and brings the corners of his vision to black. Are there Muggle light switches to do that, Draco wonders?

"Or do I already know?" Harry asks, voice low, almost a purr.

He releases Draco's arm and presses himself against Draco's back and there it is, the reason for the secret meetings and the bruises on Draco's hips and for that steady tearing in Draco's chest, a fraction at a time that's slowly stealing him.

"I think I already know," Harry breathes.

Through the glass Draco can see the fires. They are at the edge of the forest now, creeping closer, over the perfectly groomed Hogwarts' grounds. They'll be here soon.

Harry grasps a handful of Draco's hair and yanks his head around, the fires in his vision blurring into potted plants and smooth planes of glass that reflect everything perfectly. Harry's mouth covers his, tongue scraping his, and Harry tastes just the way Draco remembers him, autumn leaves falling and the faint flavor of nothing and smoke, smoke, smoke.

Has everything turned to smoke, he wonders?

Harry kisses him like he wants to know his secrets, coaxing him with his tongue and teeth and lips, like it will kill him if he can't turn Draco inside out, every hole and every crevice uncovered. It's urgent and messy and hungry, and Draco kisses him back because he wants to have a part of Harry for himself.

Harry is the first to break away, his hands stroking Draco's chest as he buries his head in the nape of Draco's neck, biting weakly on the bumps of his spine before kissing the marks that Draco knows he leaves behind. Draco leans forward, putting his hands out to steady himself, and he rests his head on the cool glass and closes his eyes before he can see the fires. He tilts his head to the side as Harry bites and kisses a path to his jaw line, breath heavy in his ear.

Harry's breathing stops for a moment, as if he's going to say something, but instead his hand comes up, fingers digging into Draco's chin, and he pushes Draco's mouth to his. Draco takes a moment to wonder what Harry was going to say when he suddenly breaks off, crying out as Harry's other hand cups him through his slacks, thumb circling in all the right ways. He feels Harry's smile against his neck and he shudders when Harry whispers,

"You're beautiful."

And Draco ignores that ache in his chest because he knows that Harry doesn't mean it.

"So are you," Draco breathes, instantly regretting it, because he knows that he does.

"Open your eyes," Harry says, thumb still circling. "Open your eyes for me, Draco."

And he does exactly that, because he always listens when Harry orders, always asks how high when Harry says jump.

The fires are almost here. Draco can see their bodies fully, from the orange-yellow centers to the red burnt tips high in the black sky, and it hurts his eyes, too bright, too bright.

"Don't close them. Don't."

And Draco listens, because there was never any doubt that he would.

He keeps his eyes on the fires as Harry unfastens his belt and his pants fall to his ankles. He watches them dance, watches them turn and twist and waltz right toward him as he hears the sound of Harry's own belt being undone, and Harry's own trousers pooling on the floor around his shoes. He scrutinizes the red tips as they sway in the breeze, curling around the oxygen, as Harry removes both of their shirts and leans his chest against Draco's back, skin on skin on skin, so good.

Harry murmurs something that Draco can't make out, and then he whispers something into his ear that Draco can't understand, and then he is pushing forward and he is holding his breath and they are one and oh gods it hurts and hurts and hurts.

Tears come to Draco's eyes but he does not close them. His hands clench, trying in vain to take hold of the wall, to bunch the smooth planes of glass into his hands. Harry pulls back and he's gone for just a second--but the pain doesn't leave, it doesn't it doesn't--before slamming back, and Draco's eyes are stinging because he isn't blinking, he isn't breathing.

The only sound is the wet slapping of skin against skin and Harry's breathing, because the fires are quiet tonight, so very, very quiet. Draco suddenly cries out and shuts his eyes, the pain too much, but then something shifts and something inside breaks. The white-hot pain is suddenly white-hot pleasure, and the tips of his toes and fingers tingle with it. Draco doesn't know if he's recovering or reawakening, coming or going or going or coming, but oh gods he thinks he might die soon from the sensations that are burning under his skin.

"Open your eyes, Draco," Harry says from behind him, his breath like a dusting of snow on Draco's heated skin. "Keep them open."

He opens his eyes just as there is a roar of wind from outside that shakes the panes of glass in the greenhouse, and when he looks up he sees the branches of the nearby trees swaying violently in the wind. He shuts his eyes and when he opens them the trees are gone and there is only fire, only fire everywhere. Up high in the trees and down here on the grass and brushing against the wards they've build around the greenhouse, surrounding and swallowing them utterly, outside and inside all the way through until Draco doesn't know which is which, or who is who, or why is why.

The fire is so close Draco thinks he might be in it. The glass sweats from the heat and Draco realizes, oh gods, he is in the fire; no, no, he's on fire. He moves against Harry, so beautifully that he's sure he could die right then happily. But he's already dying, he knows it, living and dying and falling and flying.

And the wards are breaking down and the sky is melting and the flames are coming for him; they whisper in his ear, "Louder, louder," and then they take him, and he's burning, burning, dyingflying, and the world is exploding in a bang and a curse and oh no that's just him.

- -

The smoke was always the answer.

Not the fire, not the fire.

Not the fire.

Finis