Caught in Reverse

Lights will guide you home

And ignite your bones

And I will try to fix you

~ Coldplay

"Steady on. Wait your turn."

First years clamour around Harry, rushing to board the boats that will take them across the lake to Hogwarts. "You!" Harry grabs a small, round boy by the scruff of his robes and tosses him to a seat in the back of the boat. "No pushing."

"Sorry," the boy replies, before elbowing the blond-haired boy next to him. They both burst into giggles.

"You're Harry Potter, aren't you?" the blond boy asks.

Harry sighs, scratching the two-week growth of his beard. The entire first year class is watching him in rapt silence. He knows he should be used to this by now. "Yes," he replies shortly. "Now, let's go. We haven't got all night."

The boats silently pull away from shore.

1.

There was a time when Harry Potter had dreams about his future.

When he was young and living in the Dursleys cupboard, he had dreams of escaping and living far away. Someplace exotic: like the jungle, or maybe the desert. Anyplace would do, really, as long as it wasn't number four, Privet Drive.

Then he got his Hogwarts letter, and that seemed exotic enough. He found out that he was the Boy Who Lived: a wizard, and not a freak like his Uncle Vernon had said. More importantly, he finally found the friends he'd never thought he would have. He finally belonged.

Later, he found out about Voldemort and the prophecy. He found out that the wizarding world was just as awful and spiteful as number four, Privet Drive. He found out that he had to kill someone, lest he himself be killed. So he did.

After that was done and the wizarding world was saved, Harry Potter returned to Hogwarts to finish his seventh year. Deciding that Potions, Divination, and the like were a waste of his time, he spent most of his time wandering the castle instead. No one except Hermione seemed to mind.

He took his NEWTs, got lacklustre results, and stayed behind when the last Hogwarts Express pulled out of Hogsmeade station. He stayed on through the summer, sleeping in his four-poster bed in Gryffindor Tower. He stayed until the Headmistress appeared at his bedside one morning and kindly asked him to move his things into one the guest bedrooms. The new seventh years needed to move in.

When Hermione asked, he couldn't really explain why he had decided to stay at Hogwarts. It just felt right; and frankly, it was familiar. It was the first time in his life that he didn't have to do anything, or be anyone other than himself. He simply got too used to doing nothing. Which was the problem, he supposes in retrospect.

Now he's living in Hagrid's old cabin, working as Hogwarts' groundskeeper. Not that he has any talent keeping grounds, but it forces him to get out of bed every morning. Which, he supposes, was Minerva's goal. Hermione seems to approve; she's stopped owling him weekly job notices, at any rate.

Besides, he thinks, attacking an unruly juniper bush with a pair of garden shears, his life could be worse. That thought stays with him for all of thirty seconds, when he hears a voice from someone he had happily forgotten.

"Potter."

Harry whirls around and starts badly. He sees the imposing figure of a man in expensive robes, with long blond hair blowing about his face. Then a familiar sneer crosses the man's face, and Harry breathes a sigh of relief.

"I-- you look like your father," he explains quickly.

"Of course I do," Draco replies crossly. He pauses, taking in Harry's unkempt appearance. It seems oddly appropriate, Harry thinks. Oddly appropriate that he would be unshaven, dressed in dirty Muggle clothing on the day he runs into Draco Malfoy. "I had heard you were here," Draco continues.

Harry snorts, hacking at the bush again with newfound zeal. "I'm sure talking about the mad Harry Potter is all the rage at your Slytherin cocktail parties."

Draco face darkens. "Right, because there are so many Slytherins left to mock you. Good day, Potter." Draco turns in swirl of black fabric, stalking away. It's like the last ten years never happened, Harry thinks, an odd smile inching across his face.

2.

There was a time when Harry Potter had dreams about being happy.

Draco Malfoy never had to pick sides during the war. His mother had made sure of that, removing him from Hogwarts before his sixth year and enrolling him in Beauxbatons. Draco never saw his former Slytherin classmates die; he didn't see them go to Azkaban. He didn't see his father's trial, or subsequent execution.

As far as Harry had been concerned, Draco Malfoy had fallen off the face of the earth. Harry had been too busy trying to find a way to rid the world of Voldemort before he killed anyone else. Perhaps that wasn't totally true. It was as if some weird cosmic balance was off when Draco left Hogwarts. Advanced Potions became an unbearably quiet affair. Snape even seemed subdued. And Slytherin's new Seeker was a stocky, dark-haired girl who seemed to lack any passion for the game. Then the war hit with a vengeance, and all thoughts of Draco disappeared in the chaos.

And to be honest, it was hard not to think of his old classmates. Their ghosts seem to live on in every twist and turn of the school corridors. It was why Hermione never wanted to visit Hogwarts anymore and if Harry were to be honest with himself, it was probably why he never wanted to leave.

At any rate, Draco's reappearance did little to upset Harry. Minerva even looked at him skeptically after she informed him that Draco, having "more money than Merlin knew what to do with," had offered to rebuild the war-damaged potions laboratories. He would be staying on to oversee construction.

It isn't as if his feelings about Draco have changed, quite the opposite, in fact. Now, as he watches Draco stride across the grounds, he thinks that he probably hates him even more than he did as a child. There is no reason Harry can see why Draco should emerge from the war unscathed, while Harry and his friends suffered. There is no good reason why Draco, after successfully reclaiming his money from the Ministry, should be throwing it around to buy goodwill. Not after what his father had done.

No, Harry is happy Draco is around. Now he has a better reason to get out of bed in the morning. Making Draco miserable, he decides, is a worthy pursuit of his time.

Except that is not exactly what happened.

***

"Potter."

"Yes? What is it, Malfoy?" Harry straightens up, wiping his brow with his dirty hand. He's covered in dirt, having just spent the last three hours trying, albeit unsuccessfully, to remove a rapidly growing Peeping Tom Vine from invading the girls' Quidditch showers. He's beginning to wonder if Draco thinks he never takes a bath.

Draco wrinkles his nose before replying, "The state of those gardens are appalling."

Harry shrugs. "So."

"So? Aren't you the groundskeeper?"

"Minerva knows I have no talent at gardening."

"Clearly."

Harry narrows his eyes. Draco is wearing tailored black robes trimmed in green velvet. It's a bit ostentatious, Harry thinks, for a simple stroll through the grounds. Unfortunately, Draco also looks rather good in them. A fact that makes Harry feel, in his mud-caked work clothes, all the more pathetic in comparison.

At least he remembered to shave today.

"Potter?"

"Hm?" Draco is looking at him strangely. Harry sighs. "Look Malfoy, I really don't care. If you don't like something, fix it yourself."

Draco opens his mouth and then shuts it again. Turning on his heel, he stalks away, leaving Harry to wonder why nothing ever turns out the way he hopes.

3.

There was a time when Harry Potter had dreams about finding peace.

There are formal gardens on the east side of the castle. They were meant to be a memorial to the victims of the war. There is even a fountain in the middle, its gently babbling water a place one could go to reflect, to fondly remember those who sacrificed their lives. Harry has yet to step inside those gardens.

Even though Neville had overseen their construction, Harry thought the gardens were a horrible idea. War is not orderly and neat, and neither is death. Thus, they languished under Harry's care, becoming overgrown. Students rarely visit them, believing it to be haunted. Harry couldn't agree more.

***

The morning after his conversation with Draco, Harry awakens, shivering in his ice-cold bed. The fire in the hearth had gone out overnight, and the chilled spring air hangs oppressively over him. It's mornings like this when he can look at himself honestly and wonder why he's still here, wasting his life away.

He has only left Hogwarts once since the war ended. On a whim, he had taken the Hogwarts Express to central London, only to disembark and realize that he had never been there alone. Even worse, the station and the streets outside were full of people rushing about, and in the entire bustle, he had somehow managed to get himself lost. The police found him, eventually. Harry had been cowering behind a rubbish bin, after he had apparently wandered into a shop and made a scene. Hermione had to negotiate with the police to allow her to take him back to Hogwarts later that night.

He slips on his glasses, only to catch a glimpse of blond hair outside his window. He peers closer and sees Draco, striding purposefully across the lawn, Argus Filch trailing slowly behind. Filch looks singularly unimpressed with whatever it is Draco is waving his arms about, and Harry starts to smile watching the two of them. He couldn't possibly guess what Draco would want with Filch this early in the morning. Then it dawns on him, as he watches Draco march toward the iron gates that enclose the formal gardens.

Harry had told Draco if he didn't like something that he should fix it himself, but he never dreamed that Draco would actually do it. Draco Malfoy cannot just come here and boss everyone around like he owns the place, he thinks angrily, grabbing yesterday's shirt and trousers off the floor and slipping them on.

A few minutes later he finds Draco by himself, fuming, in front of the iron gates.

"Malfoy," he exclaims cheerily. "Fancy seeing you here on such a fine, crisp morning. I'd never expect you to be up this early. It makes me think you're up to something."

"Come off it, Potter. You know very well what I'm up to," Draco sneers.

"It won't work, you know. You can't throw your money around and expect everyone to forget what you really are."

Draco takes a step forward, standing this short of being too close. "And what am I, really?"

Harry swallows, Draco's close proximity doing unwelcome things to his body. It seems that not only does he find Draco Malfoy supremely irritating, he now finds him maddeningly attractive. So attractive that Harry had been purposely avoiding him.

And of course, Draco is still standing there now, waiting for him to answer. "A coward," Harry finally manages, his voice sounding awfully feeble to his ears.

Draco smirks.

***

Two hours later, Harry sees Draco and Professor Sprout bounding toward the garden gates, a gaggle of students in tow.

"Potter," Draco exclaims, "how kind of you to come pitch in."

Harry opens his mouth to reply when Sprout interrupts cheerily. "Harry, my dear boy. Mr. Malfoy said you'd be willing to help us today."

"Did he now?" Harry glares.

Sprout continues on, oblivious to the rancorous look Harry is fixing on Draco. "I think this is an excellent end of year project for my third years. I want to thank you boys for suggesting it. Come along, class." She claps her hands briskly, and a stream of nervous looking third years shuffles through the gate. Some of them look frankly terrified, and Harry doesn't blame them.

He grabs Draco by the collar and pulls him forward. He can feel Draco's breath ghosting his skin, and he shivers involuntarily. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because it needs to be done. Now unhand me, Potter, before I have to get the Headmistress down here and file a complaint."

"Fuck you," he replies dully, as he shoves Draco away.

"Are you coming, boys?" Sprout calls.

Draco raises an eyebrow.

"Fine." Harry pushes past a trio of gawking third years, walking into the gardens for the first time.

They do look haunted, he thinks immediately. A sense of unease grabs hold of him, and he takes an immediate step backward, colliding into Draco.

"Steady, Potter," he hears Draco whisper. "You don't want to scare the children."

Harry nods. He takes a step forward, and then another, letting out a deep breath. He can hear Sprout in the background, explaining the pros and cons of using magic to destroy Creeping Pirate Moss to her students. He relaxes marginally. Draco is still a step behind him and he feels oddly comforted by that. This isn't so hard, he tells himself.

A warm breeze wafts by, picking up the scent of turned earth and the distant chatter of children. He closes his eyes, letting that breeze buffet him, letting it take him back to a time when life wasn't so complicated, and he didn't think ghosts were something to be feared.

When he opens his eyes again, he sees Draco examining a garden hoe like it was some sort of foreign object.

"You must have used one in Herbology," he says, feeling oddly giddy and he's unable to stop himself from laughing out loud.

Draco shrugs. "I made Crabbe and Goyle do everything. I don't particularly like dirt," he adds, wrinkling his nose. "It's... dirty."

"I see." Draco appears to be fighting a losing battle against smiling himself, and Harry feels something inside him twist. "Um... let me show you what to do. I think there are rose bushes by the fountain, we can start there."

Sure enough, there were prickly roses growing wild around the fountain, right near...

Blood roars in Harry's ears as his vision starts to blacken, blotting out the names on the plaque in front of him. All those people gone, everyone who he was supposed to protect, his friends... Hagrid, Dumbledore, Luna, Ron... "Ron," he can hear himself murmur as his legs give out. The last thing he sees before blacking out is Draco looking down at him.

4.

There was a time when Harry Potter had dreams about finding love.

The fire crackles in the hearth. Harry moves as close as he dares, drawing his blanket tightly around him. Shivering, he pokes at the fire, sending a shower of sparks into the air. He lets himself sink slowly to the floor, wrapping his arms around his knees when he hears a sharp rap on the door.

"Go away."

The knocking continues. "Fuck off," he shouts, throwing one of his shoes at the door. Finally, the knocking stops and Harry lets out a relieved sigh, before he hears the door click open.

"I said, fuck--," he stops, seeing Draco standing in the doorway. He makes a face and gets to his feet.

"Come to gloat," Harry says, walking towards the door. "That's what this is all about, isn't it? Let's make Harry Potter look like a fool. Like I wasn't a big enough one already."

Draco ignores him, drawing a bottle of firewhiskey out of his cloak. "May I come in?"

Harry stares at him for a moment. "Fine," he replies, collapsing heavily into one of two chairs that account for his sitting room. He lets Draco hand him a generous glass of firewhiskey, which he drains at once.

"Easy now." Draco pours him another, a smaller glass this time, and sits down into the chair beside him. Harry ignores him, staring at the fire instead. There's nothing he wants to talk about now, and thankfully Draco doesn't seem that interested in pressing him. In fact, Draco seems to be as equally engrossed in the fire as Harry.

Harry smiles nervously, draining the rest of his glass. He can't fathom why Draco would be sitting here drinking firewhiskey with him, but he feels noticeably better that Draco is.

"I'm sorry," Draco whispers suddenly, interrupting the silence.

Surprised, Harry looks up. Draco's face looks like he was force-fed spoiled pumpkin juice. He's still staring at the fire, pointedly ignoring Harry's eyes. "So you know my secret. Harry Potter is as mad as a Hatter," Harry says dramatically.

Malfoy bursts out laughing, "Yes, Potter. You're a mad one. You fainted. In public."

"You know what I mean."

Draco shrugs and looks at his nails. "I don't think you're any crazier than some of the other people in my life." He looks up at Harry pointedly. "Although," he waves his hand around dramatically, "I don't get this. This cabin is atrocious. And drafty as all hell."

Draco is looking at his nails again. He's nervous, Harry is startled to realize, noting the slight tremor in Draco's hands.

"Draco." That word sounds odd to his ears and Draco looks at him, giving him a tight smile. "Why are you doing this? I mean, why do care about that garden so much?"

"You're not the only one who lost someone during the war, you know," he answers tightly. "Maybe not all of them were on the right side. And..." he pauses, making a face. "I hoped that everyone wouldn't think I was a pariah just because Mother took me and fled the country."

Harry looks away, suddenly feeling embarrassed.

"So, you were right, Potter. Imagine that." Draco helps himself to another glass and drains it before continuing, his words tumbling in a rush. "To be honest, I've been absolutely miserable since I returned. Nobody trusts me. Nobody wants me around. I had hoped--" He looks at Harry before quickly looking away. "Never mind." He rakes a hand sloppily through his hair, messing it. "I've bothered you enough. I should go." He stands suddenly and makes for the door.

"Draco, wait." Harry leaps to his feet, catching Draco's arm. "Please. Stay."

***

Hermione reaches up to adjust Harry's collar and smiles, smoothing down his robes. "I don't believe it. You actually look like Harry Potter again." She looks at him coyly. "Maybe Malfoy is a good influence."

Harry grins back, feeling his cheeks redden.

"So, how is the little shit? I'm still reserving judgement, by the way."

"I guess that's fair." He takes a deep breath, not used to the butterflies that seem to have taken permanent residence in his stomach since Draco reappeared. "He's good. It's nice." He shrugs, feeling himself colour more. "Really nice. We're taking things slow."

"Good." Her face turns serious, and she looks at Harry with concern. "Are you sure you're ready for this?"

His smile falters, feeling his nerve start to waver. "Yes. I should have done this a long time ago."

Hermione takes his hand, leading him to the train station. "We should get on then."

***

Ron is buried with his parents on a hill in Ottery St. Catchpole, overlooking the site where The Burrow once stood. Arthur and Molly Weasley had vanished in an instant during a cold, terrible time when it seemed that nothing could stop Voldemort and his horrifying advance across England. Harry is at least thankful that they had never known that Ron had died, months later, at the hands of Lucius Malfoy.

"I'm sorry it took so long for me to come," Harry whispers. He can feel the tears that he's fought off for so long overcome him, and he decides he's not going to fight them back any longer.

Wind rustles through the trees, shaking them gently, and it catches the strands of Harry's fringe. The wind smells of summer: of lilacs in full bloom, of tomorrow, and the day after that. He gently lets the flowers he had brought with him drop, spilling them across the earth.

Once, he had imagined that his memories were like those flowers skittering across the grass, fragile and prone to disappearing forever unless he clung to them desperately.

He pushes his glasses up and wipes his eyes with the heel of his hand. He wants to tell Ron about Draco, that he met someone, finally, but he can't bring himself to, not yet. Maybe next time.

He can feel Hermione behind him, hovering close by. They had agreed not to stay long.

"Goodbye Ron, I'll be back. I promise." He touches the gravestone once, before he takes Hermione's arm and walks away.

***

Draco is waiting for him when he returns. Harry finds him loitering near the entrance to Hogwarts. Draco looks windblown and slightly pink from the sun, and Harry wants to ask him how long he's been waiting.

He reaches for Draco's hand instead.

~fin