Wherever the Wind Blows

Part II: Wherever the Wind Blows

Or, Catching, Spreading, Burning

"So call me crazy, hold me down
Make me cry; get off now, baby--"

-Fiona Apple

- -

The winds have shifted. The Forbidden Forest is on fire.

It's coming, and if you listen hard enough, you can hear the flames as they catch, spread, burn everything.

- -

The first thing Harry notices when he steps into the Great Hall is Draco Malfoy.

He thinks it might have always been this way, eyes automatically scanning a room as soon as he steps into it, the dark blondes and browns of lesser interest blurring together until he finds that impossibly bright blonde, and for some reason stops looking. Harry doesn't know if it's always been specifically Malfoy he's looked for, or if it's only natural for him to appraise his surroundings, and, upon seeing Malfoy, forget the rest of the room.

Thinking this over, Harry can't see the appeal of either situation.

But he cannot think of any other reason.

He doesn't pause when he sees Malfoy, just continues walking to his place at the Gryffindor table, eyes still on that pale skin and white sneer, and no one ever comments on the fact that he watches Malfoy more than where he's supposed to be going.

Today, day forty-five, Harry notices the new bruises on Malfoy's neck, and Harry smiles, thinking of all the others that he can't see.

- -

"Harry?"

Harry starts, focus snapping from the Slytherin table to his own, where Seamus Finnigan looks at him oddly from across the table.

"Er--yes?"

"The butter, please," Seamus says, hand indicating the bowl of butter beside Harry's elbow.

Harry knows he should take the time to look sheepish, but time has taken on a new value as of late, and Harry doesn't think it should be wasted. He hands the butter to Seamus and, with a quick glance at the Slytherin table, centers his attention on pushing his porridge around its bowl.

"You all right, Harry?" Seamus asks, knife blade cutting through the swell of pale yellow butter soundlessly. It spreads easily on his toast--like butter, Harry thinks to himself--and melts slowly into the bread, disappearing as if it had never been there in the first place.

Harry wonders about that. About disappearing. He thinks it would be nice.

"Harry? Harry?"

"Huh?"

Harry notices he's been staring, but he doesn't look away.

"You okay?"

"Oh, yes, fine."

Harry glances at Seamus and nods.

"You seem off," Seamus says, taking a bite of his toast. Harry looks away.

"Off," Harry repeats, not as a question or a statement, just to say it again, like he wants to taste the word on his own tongue.

"Yeah, off. You get enough sleep?"

"No, no... Slept fine."

"Well, I sure wouldn't blame you if you weren't. Bloody fires. It's right terrifying."

Harry had forgotten about the fires. He looks up at the enchanted ceiling out of habit. He doesn't expect to see any clouds, and he isn't disappointed when there are none, just the colorless haze of distant smoke.

"What do you suppose caused it?" Seamus asks, following Harry's gaze.

"Don't know."

He doesn't care either, but Harry doesn't say so.

"Well, there's the drought to consider, obviously," Seamus says, biting into his toast and talking through the crumbs. "Maybe it was the lightning from those storms, eh?"

Harry's eyes roam the Great Hall, and he doesn't really mean for them to end up on Malfoy, but they somehow do.

"There hasn't been a rain cloud to pass through here in forty-five days," Seamus is saying, as Malfoy's long fingers curl around his goblet, lifting it to lips that Harry thinks have never seemed so red. "My dad tells me that back home they've put restrictions on the use of water. You know, for watering lawns and washing cars and all." Malfoy's throat is a perfect plain of skin when he tips his head back to drink, all white skin and smooth flesh and straight angles. "He told me just the other day that there's a new fire south of us, to the east of Middlesborough, where all those really posh wizarding estates are. Terry Boot lives there, you know."

Harry wants to touch that skin. Possess it and bruise it and keep it. And everything else. The soft lips. The cold eyes. The sharp and gentle slope of his collarbone beneath his robes. The sneer of his lips, and the perfection of them when he rasps Harry's name. The strength of his hands when he clutches at Harry's robes and pulls him closer. The feel of his tongue against Harry's and his body underneath Harry's and his arousal pressed into Harry's.

Malfoy suddenly looks at him from across the hall, and Harry feels something stir inside of him. Something he doesn't think has a name.

"But Dumbledore says everything'll work out," Seamus continues, "They say they have everything under control."

Harry's gaze flicks to Seamus, cheeks burning like the dry underbrush to the north. "Dumbledore's an old fool," he says harshly, "And anybody who trusts him is asking for disaster."

Seamus looks closely at his toast. "I'm sorry, Harry, I didn't mean to--"

He waves Seamus off. He doesn't want to hear any more.

The table is suddenly quiet. There is a Hufflepuff behind Harry who sneezes, and another who says politely, "Bless you."

"Harry," Seamus says softly, eyes serious, "Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yes, I'm..." Harry trails off. Malfoy is no longer in his seat at the Slytherin table.

"What's that, Harry?" Seamus asks, but Harry ignores him. He stands up and turns completely around, but Malfoy is still nowhere in sight. "Harry?" Seamus keeps asking, but Harry still doesn't answer.

Harry doesn't know where Malfoy has gone. This bothers him more than it should.

- -

Draco is in the stairwell leading down to the Slytherin dungeons when Potter grabs his elbow and forces Draco to face him. Draco is thinking of his mother, probably sitting in front of her mirror right then, brushing her hair with her ivory comb, when Potter throws him against the wall. Draco isn't able to think anymore once Potter puts his hands on him, and pushes his tongue into Draco's mouth.

He tastes like faded mint, and Draco realizes that Potter hasn't eaten breakfast.

The wall is cold and hard, and Potter isn't warm enough to keep the chills from coursing up his spine. Potter fists a clump of Draco's hair and yanks, exposing his neck, and Potter runs his teeth along the junction of Draco's throat and shirt collar. Gooseflesh prickles Draco's skin, and he feels inside out, exposed and cold.

Potter mumbles something, but it's soaked into Draco's flesh, and he doesn't hear the words. He doesn't wonder what they might have been.

Potter's eyes are bright behind his glasses, green like fireworks and Unforgivable Curses. Hands brush against his belt buckle and Draco goes hard almost immediately. Potter smirks. Draco looks away.

He feels Potter's hands slither down his sides as he covers Draco's mouth with his, kisses him hard, lips cool and seeking, fingers digging into Draco's hips and pulling him closer. Draco's lungs are tightening from the lack of oxygen, but it's a good pain, more of that pleasure-pain that he thinks he's taken a liking to.

Potter's hands are under his robes, hot and wandering, and Draco can't quite recall when that happened. But his questions become groans, because Potter's hands are so hot, and Draco is so cold, and it feels like sliding burning coals over his skin, hot to the point of pain--

Only better.

The heat is spreading, but everything else feels like it's narrowing, constricting, his chest and throat and skin, veins collapsing in on each other, and, yes, that metal clang is his belt, hitting the stones underfoot. And that would be Potter's hand in his trousers, fingertips resting just so at first, curious and light, then wrapped entirely around him, and Draco is lost in heat and blaze and fire.

Draco shivers, but he's never been so unbearably hot before in his life.

Potter mumbles things into Draco's mouth and skin. Things that Draco's heard about, but never actually heard. Things that make his cheeks flush and his hips twitch. Things that Draco has been taught to find disgusting in the light of day, but this is just a dingy stairwell in a dark dungeon in an ancient castle, and some things are without rules here.

This, Draco thinks, this is without rules.

Potter's fingers are searing with lust and anger and precome, lips devouring Draco's erratic breathing. Draco grips Potter tighter when Potter grips him harder, blunt fingernails driving into Potter's shoulder and bunching his robes. Through their kiss, Draco can feel the shape of Potter's grin on his lips. He kisses Potter harder. Draco discovers that, past the remnants of wintergreen toothpaste, there is a softer taste, one that reminds him of autumn, falling leaves, and cool breezes.

And with his back against the wall, Potter's hands down his trousers, and the genuine spice of Potter on his tongue, Draco comes.

- -

"Shut up."

Potter has a look on his face that tells Draco that he wants to say something. And when Potter talks, it's never any good, in Draco's opinion.

Potter looks surprised. "I wasn't going to say anything."

"You were," Draco says, wiping his lips, then the knees of his trousers.

He snorts. "Believe it or not, Malfoy, talking to you isn't very high on my list of priorities."

Draco threads his belt into his belt loops slowly. This is because his hands are trembling.

"But getting it on in a dirty stairwell is?" He wipes his lips again. The taste won't go away.

Potter only shrugs, eyes intent on Draco's trousers. He tries harder to steady his hands.

"What is this, Potter?" Draco asks, not because he cares, really, but because he wants to distract Potter from commenting on the fact that his fingers are shaking so badly he can't even loop his belt.

"Isn't it obvious?" Potter answers, green eyes meeting his, as clear and unassuming as the cloudless sky. Empty, Draco might have said. But he didn't.

Draco ditches his witty reply and instead says, "No." He doesn't feel very witty.

Potter laughs harshly. It's a hollow sound, without depth or merit, and Draco is reminded of a lightning storm, and of a boy who couldn't believe how easy it would be to die.

"It's just fucking, Malfoy," Potter says, running a hand through his already messy hair before crossing his arms over his chest. "Just fucking."

Draco starts to speak, but realizes he has nothing to say. Potter turns and begins to climb the stairs. Draco doesn't think to stop him.

- -

By day forty-seven, Harry knows every inch of Malfoy's body.

Harry knows that there is a small scar on the palm of his hand from a piece of glass that slipped the wrong way in his hand when he was eight. He knows that there is not a single mole or freckle on his body, and that the only blemishes on his skin have been put there by Harry himself, faded bruises and healing cuts. He knows that his skin is as smooth and white as milk, and that he tastes faintly of grass and rain.

He knows that Malfoy will gasp if Harry nips his earlobe, and that he will hiss if Harry grazes his bellybutton. He knows that Malfoy's eyes flutter when he kisses his wrists. He knows that Malfoy's eyelashes are white and feel like flower petals.

Harry knows everything about Malfoy's skin.

He knows nothing about what might be under it.

This is the way he likes it.

- -

"Harry, do you have a second?"

Harry has all the time in the world, he knows, but it's valuable--remember?--and shouldn't be wasted on things that no longer matter.

"Actually, Hermione, I was just--"

"Please," she asks, eyes soft and hopeful.

He sighs. "All right. What is it?"

She averts her eyes and begins to play with the ends of her sleeve. "I'm so sorry, Harry. About yesterday. It wasn't my place to say anything. I wasn't--"

"I accept your apology," he says simply.

"You do?" she asks, head snapping up.

He shrugs. "Sure."

Her eyes fill with tears and she takes a step towards him. "Oh, Harry--"

"I wouldn't want to waste my life holding a grudge," he interrupts coldly, stepping back. "That isn't why Sirius died, after all."

The tears in her eyes become a different sort, no longer tears of happiness, and her face crumples.

"See you around, Hermione," Harry says, and walks away.

- -

They say that the fires have spread.

They say that the winds have shifted, and are now blowing south, directly towards Hogwarts.

They say that the fires will reach the Forbidden Forest first. They say that all of the underbrush and over growth will slow the fires down. They say that the fires might die out before reaching Hogwarts.

They still say not to be concerned.

But Draco is beginning to.

- -

"Now, don't be frightened, children."

Professor Grubbly-Plank motions to the enclosure behind her, containing over twenty large, greenish-black birds.

"The Augurey only feeds on insects--and fairies, if they're very lucky. Come closer now, and get yourselves one. We'll be studying these for some time, and I expect all of you to keep up a thorough..."

Draco cannot believe that they are still holding classes. There is a wildfire not ten kilometers from where he stands now, outside of the mysteriously disappearing Hagrid's excuse of a home, on the brink of a burning forest, and he's expected to learn? About birds?

"Mr. Malfoy," says Professor Grubbly-Plank, coming up behind him. The smell of pipe smoke is obvious on her robes, even through the smoke from the fires. She inclines her head towards the pen of Augureys and says, "Your bird."

Draco nods, reminding himself of all the reasons that Care for Magical Creatures should be removed from Hogwarts' curriculum.

As he approaches the pen, Draco overhears the complaints of two Gryffindor girls standing near the enclosure of Augureys, whose names he's never taken the time to learn.

"Ugh," says the first, her dark hair in a long plait that reaches her waist, "These birds are ugly. Whatever happened to the baby unicorn?"

The second nods her head, eyes on the birds. "I don't like birds."

"Birds aren't so bad. Pheonixes are gorgeous. And Occamies shine like jewelry. Why couldn't we have studied those?"

The second doesn't take her eyes off of the Augureys. "They're so skinny and- and- sad looking. They look like vultures."

The first looks at her friend, head tilted, a thoughtful look on her face. "What's a vulture?"

Draco moves around them, rolling his eyes, and forces a space between Crabbe and Goyle before the pen. He expects to find the birds ugly and repulsive, or unattractive at least, and surprises himself when his first impression is none of those.

The birds are large, slightly bigger than Draco's eagle owl, and, as the second girl had said, resemble vultures. Their beaks are long and curved, and as black as the obsidian of the Malfoy crest. Their feathers are dark as well, almost iridescent, a shimmering green where the light directly hits them, black everywhere else. Their heads are constantly bowed, and their eyes carry a sadness that bears no tears, as though they know nothing but mourning and have no more tears to spend.

The birds themselves are not beautiful, not really; they are plain and average save for their dark features. But the sadness they convey, Draco thinks, is more beautiful than any golden and crimson Phoenix or silver Occamy.

There is an allure in the tragedy of the Augureys' eyes, something dark and terrible and mysterious, that draws Draco to them.

"Professor," says a voice from the opposite side of the pen, sending a chorus of groans through the Slytherin half of the class, "What are we studying these for? They aren't in the curriculum."

"It isn't always about set plans and arrangements, Miss Granger," answers Grubbly-Plank. "Sometimes you have to deviate from a certain path in order to take another, more promising route. It would do you good to take note of that."

Granger blushes furiously behind her bushel of hair, and Pansy barks out a laugh. Draco notices that only the poorer, redder half of her pair of best friends is flanking Ganger, and he wonders, somewhat against his will, where Potter is.

"Isn't it obvious, Granger?" Pansy asks with a sneer on her lips that makes Draco proud. "The Augurey's cry foretells rain."

With his head down, Draco scans the class through his pale lashes, spotting Potter off to the side. Potter does not appear to be listening to a word of the dispute over the class course. His head is turned towards the Forbidden Forest, and there is a look of deep concentration on his face.

"I knew that," Granger says, her voice tight with frustration. "But I don't see any reason for us to get away from the plans that Hagrid set out for the class."

"Possibly because that stupid oaf mistakes Acromantulas for kittens," Pansy remarks. Nearly all of the Slytherins laugh. Draco is the only one who doesn't. Draco watches Potter.

Granger's blush deepens, but Draco doesn't think it's from embarrassment this time. She opens her mouth, but Grubbly-Plank is there first.

"All right, ladies, enough of that. Miss Parkinson, you will not talk about a Hogwarts' professor like that. Miss Granger, I am the Care of Magical Creatures professor in Hagrid's stead, and I will decide what is and what is not best for the class. Understood?"

If the question is also directed at Pansy, she shows no sign of understanding, and sends a cool smirk in Draco's direction instead of nodding. Granger, on the other hand, nods immediately, eyes intent on the birds.

"What are we all standing around for then?" Grubbly-Plank asks, seeing that no one has made a move for the Augureys. "Form a line behind me to get your birds."

Draco moves to take his place in the rapidly forming line when he notices a sharp movement from Potter's side of the pen. Looking up, Draco sees that Potter has drawn his wand and stepped away from the huddle of students around the pen. Draco follows Potter's gaze to the forest, and everything falls deaf on his ears juts as Grubbly-Plank says--

"Mr. Potter, put that thing away and get into the line."

--and all hell breaks loose.

They are huge and dog-like and ghostly, charging from the forest, and Draco doesn't know what to call them except for terrifying. He stumbles away from the pen, eyes wide, and feels his blood go cold.

Screams and shouts of shock and horror rise into the smoky air, and Draco hears Grubbly-Plank whisper, "Dear Merlin," before drawing her wand and shooting an alarm into the air, which sparks red and sends a ringing siren through the sky.

The students scatter. Green and silver and red and gold, all in a tangled mess that goes no one direction--except for away from the forest.

But one stays, still in the midst of chaos, messy hair and straight shoulders, and Draco's feet can't seem to move.

"C'mon!" someone screams in Draco's ear, grabbing his forearm and pulling hard.

He winces in pain and pulls away, turning, and meets brown eyes and bushy hair. He would have been surprised if there had been time enough for it.

"No!" Draco shouts, pulling his wand from his robes.

Granger's eyes widen in something that might have been fear. Draco isn't sure. There is already so much of it in her eyes.

"I'm staying!" he yells, without really knowing why.

Draco pushes her, and she staggers backward. "Go!" he tells her, which is odd, he thinks, because what he really meant to say was, 'What are you waiting for? Run at the charging monsters, Mudblood!' but he doesn't have time for a correction.

He glances towards the forest. They're close, and Potter is flinging curses at them, and they're dropping like poisoned rats, heavy and stiff and open-eyed.

Granger tugs on his robes again, telling him he's stupid, mad, crazy, that Potter can handle this but he can't.

Draco shrugs her off. "Get out, Mudblood!"

She freezes, eyes turning cold. And then she's gone.

Draco turns back to the struggle just as one of the creatures comes at him, teeth sharp and bared, muscles moving like liquid power in the ghostly blue shape of their form. Terror seizes him, cold and paralyzing, before he pushes it away with a deep breath and a curse.

"Petrificus Totalus!"

It drops at once, limbs frozen, jaws open.

There are more than ten of them; a pack, Draco realizes. Some are bigger than others, but all are capable of breaking himself or Potter neatly in two. They have broad snouts and disproportionately large hindquarters. Draco thinks they might have once been hounds, normal dogs sent to hell and bred into this--spectral beasts with sharp fangs and powerful jaws.

"Stupefy!"

The red bolt of lightning hits its target in the side and the animal goes limp, and it begins to tumble, legs twisting at unnatural angles as its body reels out of control.

There is a buzz of movement and warning over his head, and Draco looks up, eyes squinted against the sunlight. Birds of all types and shapes are soaring out of the Forbidden Forest, one and then another and then hundreds, a torrent of flapping wings and shrill, piercing wails that blend invisibly with Grubbly-Plank's alarm, and Draco has to cup his hands over his ears to keep from collapsing.

And then suddenly the sky goes sideways, the birds go mute, and there is grass in his eyes and mouth. One of the hounds climbs over him, its body like solid smoke, and Draco tries to scream, but the sound becomes stuck in the back of his throat, lodged behind something that feels like panic. Its claws are long but blunt, digging into his flesh without breaking it, and its lucid fur is grainy in his hands as he fights to keep its jaws away.

Its breath is rank with raw decay, and Draco thinks that this is has got to be the worst way in the world to die, just before the hound suddenly goes limp, and falls to the side. Potter stands over him, a sight in dirt smudges and flushed cheeks and burning eyes. The birds fly over him, and it looks as if the sky is running away from them.

He says something, but Draco can only hear the rush of blood in his ears and the exchange of his breath. Potter tries again.

"Are you all right?"

The words are distant and blended, as if one of them is underwater, but he hears them.

"Yeah," Draco says, which also sounds like it's come from a long ways away.

Potter holds out his hand, eyes on him, and Draco thinks he can see the fire draining from the green as Potter stands there, offering help.

Draco looks at his hand. "I can get up," he says, and then does. He wipes the knees of his trousers, and then his mouth, for no reason at all.

The hounds lie on the brown, dying grass, motionless except for the rapid rise and fall of their chests. Draco thinks that there are less of them than he originally thought, but he doesn't take the time to count. There are still birds pouring from the forest, their screeching calls shocking the blue sky.

Potter is looking at him. Draco looks at his hands.

"Ash," Draco says, lifting his hands for Potter to see. They are almost black, and smell strongly of smoke. "From the hounds. Or whatever they are."

Potter nods. "Gytrashes. They were probably just trying to get away from the fires."

The light in Potter's eyes is completely gone. Draco thinks he might want it back. His hand comes up and he brushes back a piece of hair from Potter's forehead, leaving a streak of ash over his scar. Potter's eyes snap to his, and there is surprise mingled with the green, as if he has just noticed Draco's presence.

He holds Draco's gaze for a moment, and then turns away and heads for the castle as streams of crying birds fly over him.

- -

The birds still skim the skies over Hogwarts in escape from the fires two days later, day forty-nine. The sound of their shrieking keeps Harry awake at night. Not that he sleeps much anyway.

But Harry knows more than anyone how important is it to keep appearances up.

Animals from the Forbidden Forest have been storming Hogwarts' grounds since day forty-seven, and Harry has seen everything short of vampires and werewolves.

He expects they'll come soon enough.

Dumbledore refuses to cancel all classes, though Care for Magical Creatures and Quidditch and any other activity practiced outdoors has been strictly banned, and all of the remaining classes have been moved into classrooms in the dungeons. Snape thinks very poorly of having his domain invaded by the entire school, and for that reason alone Harry is willing to put up with four stone walls and no windows every day.

An earlier curfew has been adopted, and no student is allowed outside of the castle's walls without expressed permission from McGonagall, Snape, or Dumbledore himself.

There is no body count, but thirty-two students have been injured, and sixteen of those are still in the hospital wing. Harry was there when a swarm of Doxy flew through the open windows in Charms and attacked Anthony Goldstein. He remembers the sound of the Doxies' wing, flapping sweetly and rhythmically, like butterfly wings, as they dug their small, venomous teeth into Anthony's face and neck.

Harry remembers a lot of things from the past two days.

He remembers when the Red Caps stormed into the halls between classes, ash and smoke smeared across their skin and clothes, their caps sickly pale and boulders under their arms. He remembers the screams. He remembers the sound of bones breaking through flesh, and he remembers the blood on the Red Caps' fingertips after they had used it to dye their caps red again.

He remembers the Gytrashes. Remembers the blaze of adrenaline in his veins when they burst from the Forbidden Forest, wraithlike and hungry and headed straight for him. Remembers Malfoy as he fought one off with his hands, wand lost in the grass beside him. Remembers that he couldn't decide whether or not to help Malfoy.

Harry remembers a lot of things about Malfoy.

He remembers the soft skin of his stomach, and the sharpness of his hips. He remembers the smell of his sex, and the slickness of it between his fingers. He remembers his mouth, warm, as it took Harry between his lips, gentle as it moved over him, tight as it swallowed him deeper.

But Harry doesn't remember which are the memories he wants to remember, and which are the ones he wants to forget.

- -

"May I have your attention, please?"

The Great Hall falls quiet as Dumbledore rises from his seat to address the students. Harry pushes his uneaten kidney pie away from him and gives Dumbledore his full attention.

"It is no secret that Hogwarts is in a quite a state. Despite our dearest hopes, the fires draw ever closer," Dumbledore says, his soft voice commanding the attention of every pair of ears present. "Because of the nature of a wildfire, the instant, unpredictable shift in direction, I have put this off for as long as possible, hoping that the winds would see another change. But I am afraid that it is now unavoidable."

Harry senses that the atmosphere in the Great Hall is heavy with many things. Excitement. Dread. Hope.

"The fires are now within five kilometers of Hogwarts' grounds, and, with the safety of my students as my top priority, I have no choice to but to cancel all classes and to make arrangements for your safe arrival home until this ordeal passes."

The buzz builds slowly, whispers and then voices and then cries of rage and joy and everything in between, culminating like a wave, washing over the entire Great Hall.

Harry is the only one without a reaction.

"Please, please," Dumbledore says, raising his hands into the air for silence. The noise stops in the same manner as it began, slowly draining away. Once he is sure he again possesses everyone's attention, Dumbledore begins, "However," he says, and Harry sees eyes light up all over the hall, "There is an opportunity open for those who wish to remain behind."

Harry doesn't think he wishes to stay behind, but he doesn't think he wishes to leave.

Harry doesn't really wish at all, once he thinks about it.

"The professors and I will need all the help we can get to ensure that there will still be a Hogwarts for you all to return to." Dumbledore's eyes are alight, and Harry thinks that this is because of the candles that flank the Headmaster. "We ask that only sixth and seventh year students volunteer for this chore, for it will involve some complex magic in risky parts of the castle, and should not be used by students without proper experience.

"For those of you who will be leaving, the train for your departure leaves tomorrow morning. Please pack your things in haste. The fires wait for no one."

Dumbledore's voice becomes softer, and he looks directly at Harry.

"And I trust that those of you remaining at Hogwarts during this trying time, will do so in your best and clearest judgment."

The Headmaster reclaims his seat, and the Great Hall seems to erupt in noise. From what Harry can decipher, most of the students are looking forward to the early holiday, or their parents have made demands for them to return home for safety.

Neither applies to Harry.

He looks to the Slytherin table, and sees Malfoy looking back.

Harry thinks that the same goes for Malfoy.

- -

Are you staying?

Potter questions Draco when they are alone, a nameless, useless classroom, his hands in Draco's trousers, his mouth against Draco's ear.

Are you?

Potter's lips descend over his, crushing and tasting until Draco gives up fighting and moans. Potter tastes like nothing, like oxygen and saliva, and Draco doesn't think he's been eating.

Are you staying?

Potter slips his hands under Draco's shirt, thumbs circling over his skin before moving back down and slowly pushing Draco's trousers from his hips. The coins in his pockets clang dully as they hit the floor.

Are you?

Draco looks away, says no. Then pushes forward, says yes. Watches as Harry drops to his knees, says yes. Bucks against Potter's mouth as Potter's lips take him, and says yes.

Will you stay?

Draco feels like the room is going to swallow him whole, but maybe that is because someone else is swallowing him whole.

Will you?

Yes, yes, yes, yes...

- -

"You've messed this one up, Potter."

Draco points to the ward they have just constructed over the greenhouse's south exit, the one facing the Forbidden Forest.

"What are you talking about?" Potter asks, looking at it closely.

They are among the very few--less than was anticipated--who have remained behind to protect the castle. Potter and, surprisingly enough, Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan are the only Gryffindors remaining, and Draco the only Slytherin. There are a few scattered Ravenclaws, and a surprising amount of Hufflepuffs. No Weasley, no Granger, and Potter says he doesn't want to talk about it.

"You've missed something," he informs Potter, who was the only person left willing to be paired with Draco for the assembly of the wards.

"How do you reckon?"

The spell for the ward is a complicated blend of other protection spells; spells for creating barriers, spells for repelling fire damage, spells for bodily protection, all combined into one long, difficult, frustrating, often-done-wrong spell.

Draco thinks that putting up the wards is very much like playing glow in the dark connect the dots. The first part of the spell, when done correctly, creates a set of six small, red lights, arranged in two parallel lines of three, on the object that the spell has been cast on. The second part produces five sporadic red lights, the third four more sporadic, red lights, the second three red lights, and so on. By the time the spell is fully cast, the dots should have arranged themselves into a shield with an H for Hogwarts--or possibly Harry or Hippogriff, Draco isn't sure--in the center.

The edge of Potter's shield is a bit spotty.

"This here," Draco says, pointing to an empty space in the decoration of glowing dots. "There's supposed to be a light here. And one here," he says, sliding his finger down and to the left.

"So now you've memorized the little dots, have you?"

Draco steps back. "I could have just said that the border of your shield had holes in it, but I felt like impressing you with my vast, ever-growing knowledge. How have I done?"

"Poorly," Potter says, wiping away the ward with one flick of his wand and beginning again.

Draco falls quiet as Potter mumbles the incantations, watching as the lights appear from nowhere, quietly forming the only barrier that will come between them and the wildfire that's burning its way towards them right this second. The flood of birds and dark creatures from the forest has slowed to a trickle, and Draco thinks that this must be something like the quiet before the storm.

Through the glass of the greenhouse, Draco can see the distant glow of disaster and flames.

"Are you scared?" Draco whispers, a question that surprises even him.

Potter doesn't look at him, but the words to the spell die on his lips instantly.

"What do I have to be scared of?"

Draco looks closely at him. Potter's bruises have begun to fade, an ugly yellow-green in the candlelight that makes Potter seem sunken in, hollowed. His clothes--they are no longer forced to wear school uniforms, and Potter has taken to wearing shirts and blue jeans--hang the wrong way on him, like they might be too big, but Draco can't tell for sure.

"The fires. The school burning down. Death."

All of these things seem obvious to Draco, but Potter looks as if he's just heard them. He seems to think about this for a long time, his eyes distant.

But Draco doesn't think this means anything. Potter's eyes are always distant.

"I'm not afraid of death," Potter finally says, voice flat and neutral.

Draco remembers a night not so long ago, when there was lightning, and a cliff, and a hysterical cry that told Draco more things than the mere words could have.

"Because it's easy?" he asks softly.

"No," Potter says, turning, finally looking at Draco. "Because I have nothing to be scared for."

Which is, Draco thinks, Potter's way of saying that he has nothing to live for.

- -

Nobody ever takes the time to define fire.

It's just something that is supposed to be known, drilled into children before they can even think for themselves: fire is bad.

No one ever told Harry.

When he was seven years old, Dudley brought Harry into their living room on Christmas Eve when his aunt and uncle were sleeping, pointed into the burning fireplace, and told Harry to feel the flames.

Something strong pulled at Harry and told him not to do it, that the flames were warm from here, imagine touching them. When Harry told Dudley this, Dudley asked Harry how he knew that if he's never touched it before.

Harry answered that he wasn't sure. He just had a feeling.

Dudley told him that he had done it before, and that Harry's feeling was wrong. He told Harry that it would feel nice. He told Harry he would be his friend if he did.

So Harry reached in, grasped quickly for the flames, and came away screaming.

The Dursleys didn't take Harry to the hospital. Aunt Petunia wrapped his hand in a wet dishcloth, shut him into his cupboard, and Harry peeled away the dead skin for weeks until his hand was once again smooth. His hand did not scar. He doesn't know why.

The first chance he had, Harry snuck into Uncle Vernon's office and found his uncle's dictionary. It was the last word on page 167.

Reaction involving fuel and oxygen that produces heat and light.

Harry thought that this definition was faulty. There was no mention of the pain. No mention of the burning. No mention of the gut feeling that told him not to go near it.

Then Harry began to read the dictionary, because there were other things he didn't know, and nobody to tell him.

- -

"Malfoy? Malfoy, you sodding bastard, I've been waiting for you in the greenhouse for over an hour!"

Harry's face is flushed from anger as he bangs into the Slytherin common room, cursing Malfoy. He has given Harry the password, seeing as house rivalries are a bit petty when faced with the destruction of the entire school.

"Malfoy!"

Harry glances around the common room, but Malfoy is nowhere in sight. Harry turns and storms down the steps to the hallway of Slytherin prefect bedrooms, stopping before Malfoy's.

"Malfoy, you had better be dead or bleeding profusely," Harry says sharply as he swings open the door. "What the fuck is the mat--"

Harry stops himself. Malfoy is sitting on the edge of his bed, his shoulders slumped and his head in his hands, a ripped, black envelope at his feet.

Harry steps into the room and closes the door quietly behind him. There is no one left to barge in on them, and Harry isn't sure why he does it, but things always feel safer when the door is shut. More secure.

He bends down and picks up the envelope, and a cold, tight familiarity grips him. He was sent a letter, enclosed in an envelope exactly like this one, over the summer, which informed him of Sirius' death. Harry turns the letter over. The return address is the Ministry of Magic. The addressee is one Draco Malfoy, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, prefect room thirteen, bedside.

Harry looks at Malfoy.

"Who?"

Malfoy shows no sign of having heard him. His head remains bowed, silver-blonde hair falling in front of his face, chest moving slowly and deeply.

Harry isn't sure Malfoy has heard him until he says, "My mother."

His voice reminds Harry of a withered riverbed, dry and shallow and rough.

"How?"

Malfoy looks at him then, head snapping up so suddenly that Harry is almost surprised.

"What do you care, Potter?" Malfoy asks coarsely, the words jagged on his lips.

Malfoy's eyes are red and swollen, but Harry doesn't think that this is because Malfoy has been crying. He thinks it's because Malfoy has been trying his hardest not to cry.

"What the fuck do you care?" Malfoy asks again.

Harry shrugs. He doesn't know if he cares or not.

"That's right, Potter, you don't fucking care."

Harry never said that, but he doesn't correct him.

Malfoy looks at him, and Harry is reminded of the spoiled brat he used to know. The Malfoy that rallied for the destruction of Muggles and Mudbloods, the Malfoy that insulted Harry and his best friends for years, the Malfoy that never would have kissed back if Harry had kissed him.

Harry doesn't move as Malfoy straightens away from his bed, stumbling as he takes a step toward Harry. He is very close, their chests almost touching, and his breath smells like smoke, a smell that Harry has become very familiar with.

Malfoy's voice is growing louder as he speaks, cheeks becoming redder and hair falling further into his face. "You don't fucking care that my mother's dead, do you? You don't care that our entire estate has burned down, and that she was in it, do you? Do you?" he asks, screaming the last question into Harry's face.

"I don't care about anything, Malfoy," Harry says coolly, "So don't take it personally."

Harry sees the punch coming, but he doesn't do anything to stop it.

Malfoy's fist connects solidly with Harry's jaw and the room spins sharply for a second before stopping as Harry staggers to the side and collides with the wall. Malfoy grabs the collar of Harry's shirt and shouts something at him, but Harry doesn't understand what he's saying. It suddenly feels like a hand has tried to reach into his stomach through his belly button as Malfoy's drives his knuckles into Harry's abdomen, and Harry lurches forward in pain, the edges of his vision becoming blurry.

Harry stands back and shoves Malfoy in the chest, and Malfoy goes flying into the post of his bed. The wood cracks, a sharp, sudden sound that contrasts with the blunt thud of Harry's fist against his side. Malfoy's lips twist severely as he struggles with Harry, hands against his shoulders, pushing and twisting and yanking.

Something suddenly breaks inside of Harry, heat spilling from it and flowing into his veins, spreading through his body, and Harry cries out, a high-pitched wail that echoes off the high ceilings and stone walls of Malfoy's bedroom, and he pushes Malfoy, throwing him onto his bead. Malfoy looks strangely at him, eyes full of an emotion that Harry doesn't waste time deciphering. Anger or desire or fear or maybe even all of those combined.

Harry crawls past Malfoy's kicking legs, and presses himself against Malfoy's thigh as he wraps his fingers around Malfoy's neck, and yes, yes, Harry thinks, this is fear, this is what he's looking for.

Isn't it?

Malfoy makes a noise that's two parts panic and one part anger as he pushes Harry's hands away, swinging frantically at Harry's arms. Harry grasps Malfoy's flailing limbs, holding him by the wrists as he spreads Malfoy's arms wide his sides. He leans down and crushes his lips against Malfoy's resisting ones.

Malfoy tries to bite him. Harry almost lets him.

"You only make it better when you struggle," Harry whispers, grinding into Malfoy to prove his point.

And for all of Malfoy's resisting, Harry knows that Malfoy is enjoying this as much as he is.

If he weren't, Harry would have put an end to it some time ago.

The fighting? The fucking? Both?

"Yes," Harry says aloud, voice husky and low, and he doesn't know if he's talking to Malfoy or himself.

Suddenly Malfoy's head comes up and he captures Harry's lips with his own, tongue invading Harry's mouth and swirling, and Malfoy, Harry thinks, is a very, very good kisser.

Harry releases Malfoy's wrists and his arms instantly wrap themselves around Harry, drawing him closer as Malfoy kisses him deeper. Harry's hand snakes between their bodies, and he jerks at Malfoy's belt, smiling into Malfoy's kiss. Harry pulls away, tilting his head to the side, tracing his lips across Malfoy's jaw line.

Malfoy's bed is only half made, and the soft cotton sheets are crumpled beneath their bodies. Harry had wondered if Malfoy would have silk sheets. He is somewhat disappointed that he doesn't.

Harry slips his fingers into Malfoy's shirt and rips it open to the rhythm of small pops and breaking thread, buttons flying at his face and scattering on the bed. Malfoy's skin is cool and salty under Harry's tongue, and it reminds Harry of Quidditch in the rain.

Malfoy hisses sharply as Harry moves down, abdomen muscles twitching in excitement, chest heaving. He licks small circles around Malfoy's bellybutton before he continues downward, nuzzling Malfoy's hips with his nose and cheek.

In one quick movement, Harry has Malfoy's trousers around his knees, Malfoy's lips gasping his name, and his own lips somewhat occupied.

Harry has to hold down Malfoy's hips with his hands. Harry watches him as he struggles, his arms flailing and his chest twisting. Malfoy finally takes hold of the sheets, balling the cotton into his fists, pulling and yanking as he tries to fight for control. Every part of Malfoy moves against Harry, thrashes for fulfillment, but his eyes are focused, still, gazing silently at the ceiling, dark and gray as storm clouds, if Harry remembers what those look like correctly. Malfoy's eyes remind Harry of the Augureys: empty sadness and no tears.

He does all he can to make Malfoy scream, but Malfoy fights it, fists tugging harder at the sheets, Harry's name still a whisper on his lips.

Harry's fingers dig harder into Malfoy's hips than are necessary.

He wants to leave his mark.

When Malfoy is finished, Harry swallows and moves away. He wipes his face on the pale, bruised skin of Malfoy's hips, closes his eyes, and pretends that he doesn't hear the sound of Draco Malfoy's weeping.

- -

The wind is blowing south. The Forbidden Forest is almost gone.

Here it comes. Catching, spreading, burning.

Finis