Burn

Burn

On summer nights like this one, when the heat becomes unbearable and the entire city seems to be slowly burning, Draco goes out on the balcony of his flat, and he tries to forget. He knows that this is useless, that he can't ever truly forget, but he decided long ago that he would sure as hell try, and try he does.

Sometimes, he'll think of being home with Father and Mother, before he went to Hogwarts, when everything was simple, his choices already made. He often thinks that he was on the path to do the easy thing back then, as opposed to the right one, and there are many days when he thinks that easy sounds pretty nice. If he had done the easy thing, then he wouldn't be living in this tiny flat in London, all alone except for the memories. He could be in a posh suite on the fashionable end of town, a witch on each arm.

These fantasies never last, though. All too soon the drinks and girls and lights vanish, and he once again finds himself staring at the grubby kitchen counter, a dirty dish in hand. It's at these times when faces begin to appear before him, that long-forgotten words are whispered in his ears. And it's at this point that he drops the dish and walks quickly to the glass door, and steps out onto the balcony.

The heat outdoors is not any less stifling than inside, except for the rare occasion when a slight breeze plays across his face, ruffling the fringe that is plastered to his forehead by sweat. He breathes a sigh of relief- at least out here he doesn't feel as though he's suffocating.

*****

Suffocate.

"Father, will you go practice Quidditch with me?"

"No, Draco. Can't you see I'm busy?"

"We haven't been to play in ages!"

"I'm busy, Draco. Go by yourself."

Draco stumbles off. It's hot and sticky, and the inside of the manor is almost unbearable. It's certainly no place for a ten-year-old. Mother is busy writing letters to all her old school friends, and Father is... well, he doesn't even know what Father is doing. Father doesn't often share information with Draco.

He runs to the front doors and pushes them open, his small hands sliding on the smooth wood. He slips through them and races down the front steps, breathing in great gasps, wishing there was a breeze to cool off his sweaty face. It's quiet out in the yard- even the birds aren't singing. Probably too hot, Draco muses. He walks a few feet, and then flops down in the grass. He looks up at the sky, a bright, clear blue. A small breeze blows from the south, making the leaves in the trees rustle. He looks in the direction from which the breeze comes, willing it to continue.

He looks up to the sky again. He idly wishes it would rain, thinking longingly of cool raindrops hitting his flesh. He wonders if his skin is hot enough to cause a hissing sound from the water hitting. He wonders if the path is hot enough to fry an egg on. Maybe his skin is.

A few minutes pass. He accidentally looks directly into the sun, and his eyes burn. Tears form. He stands and hurries down the path, back to the manor. It's hot inside. He can hear Mother bustling around, Father calling him. He takes a deep breath- inside, among his parents, away from the fresh air, it's harder to breathe.

Suffocate.

*****

The cars below move slowly. Draco wonders, as he often does, how Muggles manage without magic. Across the road, a woman leans out the window, fanning herself with a copy of the Times. On another balcony, a girl eats a bowl of ice cream, slurping it quickly before it melts. Draco watches her as she finishes eating, and licks her fingers.

She's a beautiful girl. Her hair is long and dark and curly, and she has beautiful fair skin. The night is clear, and the moon shines on her face, so he can see her clearly. She doesn't notice him looking at her, which is just as well. It's because he's looking at her that he notices the light change. It's not as bright, he can't see her laugh lines as clearly. He glances up, and sees a few clouds in the sky. Maybe it will rain, he muses. Rain would be nice.

For a while, though, there's no rain. Just a slightly murky light shining on the beautiful girl.

*****

Murky.

It's different this summer than it ever has been before. Things are uncertain, there's fear in the air. Father's not there each morning when he wakes up. It takes getting used to, it just being him and Mother. There's no routine. Death Eaters are at the door at every hour of the day, talking with Mother for a few minutes before Disapparating.

Draco doesn't like it. He wants things to be the way they were before Father got arrested. He doesn't like change. There'll be no trip to the seaside this year. He'd wanted to go to France. Mother had promised he could, but when he tried to bring it up with her the day he arrived home, she waved her hand, saying that such a trip was impossible.

Father always said that the cause was worth any sacrifice one might have to make. Draco had nodded, wide-eyed, at the time, but now that he thinks back to it, he's not sure how Father would know anything about sacrifices- he had never made one in his entire life. Until now, of course. Going to prison is certainly a sacrifice.

Draco has decided he doesn't like sacrifices. He doesn't think "the cause" is worth giving up his summer holidays for. Maybe "the cause" isn't as important as Father always said.

Draco is fifteen. He doesn't want to have a father in Azkaban and a house filled with Death Eaters, and a mother he rarely sees. He wants to be on a beach somewhere, relaxing. He wants to have fun. He doesn't want this, this muddled uncertainty he's living in.

Maybe, just maybe, his father is wrong.

Murky.

*****

Overhead, the skies continue to darken. Draco constantly glances upward, hopeful. Please let it rain, he begs internally. He can't see the beautiful girl across the road anymore, because the moon is almost completely hidden by the heavy clouds overhead, and few windows on their street are lit.

It's still hot. The clouds seem to just keep the heat in. Any trace of a breeze is gone, and Draco feels as though he's about to spontaneously combust.

He can't see any stars, now. Before, even with the bright lights of the city keeping the sky a dusky purple, there was one star in the east he could see. It's no longer visible, and he can't even remember where it was exactly in the sky.

There's a rumble of thunder in the distance. Draco has vague thoughts of going indoors. All around him is darkness.

*****

Darkness.

Draco wants the letters to stop. He doesn't want to see his father's precise handwriting ever again. He doesn't open them anymore, knowing what they will say. 'Draco, this is your last chance...' 'Draco, do you know what you're doing?' He knows exactly what he's doing... he doesn't need to be reminded.

Two months ago, he told his father he never wanted to see him again. Two months ago, he was disowned. Two months ago, his perfect future as a high paying member of the Ministry came crashing down around his feet. He has nothing. He is aware of this, he accepts it, and he doesn't need a torrent of letters to remind him of this every bloody day.

Maybe his timing for this announcement wasn't the best. Three days after he told his father he never wanted to see him again, Cornelius Fudge was killed, and Voldemort took over full control of the wizarding world.

Each day, Draco expects to be killed, for Hogwarts to be attacked. Each night, as he lies in bed, he expects it to be the last. All around him, the world is in turmoil, uncertain. Hogwarts is fairly isolated, but all around him, he hears whispers of another village burned, another mass murder, another disappearance.

It is May, and the sky is on fire at night. At sunset and sunrise, the world is a bloody red. During the day, there is no noticeable sun. Overhead, there are heavy, thick clouds, blocking out any clear sky.

It's too much. Draco is sick of hearing of more orphaned children in Oxford, another widow in Brighton.

There's thunder in the distance. Or maybe it's just another explosion. He's stopped trying to tell the difference. The war continues. The paper is controlled by Death Eaters now, so there's not much point in reading it. All that Draco bothers with is the weather report, even though he already knows what it will say.

Darkness.

*****

Draco is about to turn and reenter his flat, when a cloud shifts in the eastern sky. He strains his eyes, and can vaguely see a patch of night sky. Thunder claps, louder this time. Lightning flashes.

With one particular bright flash, Draco can see across the road again. The beautiful girl is inside now. He catches a glimpse of her pulling her curtains shut, the inside of her flat brightly lit, the windows glittering like jewels. He looks back at his own darkened windows, and feels a sharp pang of loneliness.

He turns his attention towards the sky once more. The clouds have shifted more in the east, and there is a single patch of light visible. The lone eastern star is now visible, casting a weak light through the darkness.

*****

Light in the dark.

"I'm going out now," Harry calls through the house. He takes his cloak from the peg by the door.

"Where are you off to, then?" Draco asks, emerging from the bathroom. His hair is damp from the shower, and he smells slightly spicy and clean, from soap and aftershave.

"Headquarters," Harry says simply. "Remus called an emergency meeting." He walks toward Draco, and places his hand on Draco's shoulder. "You staying in?"

Draco closes his eyes when he feels Harry's hand touch his skin. "Yes." He opens his eyes again. "I thought you and Granger were going to Hogsmeade."

A brief look of disappointment flits across Harry's face. "I'll see her at the meeting, at least." He looks down for a moment. "Not the same, obviously, but better than nothing."

Draco nods. "Right." Harry hasn't seen Granger and Weasley in almost a month, and he had been looking forward to this chance to see her. "Want me to come?"

Harry shakes his head. "You stay here. You're knackered."

Draco won't admit it to Harry, but he is. "I'm okay."

"No, you stay here. I should be back by morning." He hesitates for a moment, and then leans in and kisses Draco.

Physical intimacy of any sort is still difficult for both of them. Neither are used to being touched lovingly very often, and they're still exploring the facets of their relationship.

They break the kiss, and Draco is smiling a bit. He never thought Harry Potter could make him smile, but here he is. Of course, six months ago, the thought of being in the same room with Harry would have repulsed him. Funny what a few pints and some drunken kissing can lead to.

"Bye," Harry says softly.

Draco tousles Harry's hair, a gesture startling in its tenderness. "See you."

Harry Disapparates, and Draco is alone in the house. He likes to be inside. While the war rages on in the outside world, he can escape it in here. Especially when Harry's around. The Boy Who Lived has a surprising talent for driving every thought out of Draco's brain.

As these thoughts flit through his mind, Draco's face breaks into a small grin.

Light in the dark.

*****

Almost as soon as Draco notices the bit of light, it is gone, the clouds shifting once again so that the sky is heavy and foreboding.

Lightning occurs with even more frequency, and the thunderclaps cause echoes in Draco's ears. He wonders vaguely why he doesn't go indoors- it's about to rain, and from the looks of it, it's going to rain hard. He doesn't go in, however.

It's still hot, but it's windy now, and he can smell the approaching rain. A minute or so passes, and then the first raindrops begin to fall. What starts out as a mild sprinkle quickly turns into a downpour, and Draco opens his arms and feels the drops hit his hands and soak through his sleeves. He's soaked to the bone now, but still he lingers outside, reveling in the feel of the rain and the relief it brings.

*****

Relief.

Hogwarts is smoking and partially collapsed, but on the front lawns, a crowd of thousands is screaming and crying and laughing, and celebrating as it has never celebrated before.

Draco walks among them, looking seriously at the overjoyed people before him. He neatly dodges two little boys, running around and waving toy wands at each other. He sees a boy and a girl, who can't be older than sixteen, locked in a tight embrace. He feels a twinge of loneliness, and tries to ignore it.

Draco doesn't like celebrations much- too noisy. Noise bothers him now- he's prone to jump at the sound of a door slamming. This celebration in particular bothers him.

Don't they care?, he wonders. Harry's dead, and they're here celebrating. Harry's been dead for almost twenty hours, and they've already forgotten. All they care about is the fact that Voldemort's been defeated for twenty hours- they can easily ignore the fact that The Boy Who Lived has been The Boy Who Died for just as long.

Draco shakes his head, trying to keep his thoughts from straying in the direction of Harry's anguished yells, and bright flashes of light and the sight of Harry's body lying next to the pile of ash that was formerly Lord Voldemort.

It's sunny for the first time in ages. Draco looks up at the sky and tells himself he's being selfish. Harry was a hero, this is what heroes do: they die in their attempts to save all mankind.

The sun is shining and the birds are chirping and for the first time in years there are sounds of laughter instead of terrified screams. Harry's dead and the world is saved.

In the future, maybe he will be miserable. Maybe he will spend the rest of his life mourning for Harry. Maybe he will shut himself off from the world. But today, on this day, Draco knows that he's going to wake up tomorrow morning, that he won't be dead by then, and this sensation is so wholly unfamiliar to him that he lets out a great laugh in spite of himself.

Relief.

*****

Draco slides the dirty glass door shut behind him. His flat is dark, and he walks to a table and lights a lamp. It's stuffy and hot, and he wishes he could open a window and let the breeze in. But it's still raining too hard, and so he sits down with a heavy sigh.

His shirt is plastered to his chest, and drops of water drip from his fringe onto his nose, and roll down to his lips. Even with the light on, it's still dim in here, but Draco doesn't feel like getting up again to light another lamp. He's happier than he has been in previous days, and though he knows it's just because it's raining, he still feels hope.

Maybe tomorrow, he'll wake up and decide that he's hid long enough. Maybe tomorrow he'll dig his wand out from under his bed and Disapparate. Maybe tomorrow he'll go to Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade, and reclaim his life. Maybe tomorrow.

But right now, all he knows is that he's no longer burning. With the rain came the ability to put out the flames.

*****

When the waves are round me breaking,

As I pace the deck alone,

And my eye in vain is seeking

Some green leaf to rest upon;

What would not I give to wander

Where my old companions dwell?

Absence makes the heart grow fonder,

Isle of Beauty, fare thee well!

-John Milton, Isle of Beauty

*****