Rematch

It was August the twelfth; two months and twelve days since Draco Malfoy had been found dead in the old ruins of Caerwydd Castle. It was also two months and twelve days since Harry Potter had been admitted to St Mungo's, those two months and twelve days becoming some of the worst of his life. The staff had perhaps been the worst; they were always smiling at him, telling him that everything was fine, that it was OK that he still believed that Draco was alive even though he was not. They were always so cheerful, they didn't understand. If Draco Malfoy were truly dead, Harry Potter would have been also. He hadn't been put on any medication, nor had he had any magical treatment of any kind. The Mediwizards had preferred for him to sit by himself, in a nice peaceful room, where the silence was deafening and he couldn't sleep, being tormented by nightmares whenever he closed his eyes. He awoke screaming every night, to find no one there, because no one would ever be there, because Draco was gone. In the end, Harry had given up on sleeping all together and had stayed up every night, writing letters to Draco and putting them under his pillow. They had tried to take them off him of course, but he wouldn't let them. They were the only way he could think about Draco without breaking down and crying. It was all he had. His mind wouldn't work properly and instead told him and showed him things he did not want to see or hear, with no one to comfort him because he was alone in the deafening silence.

It had taken two months and ten days but he had finally done what they had wanted him to and now he was 'sane', discharged from St Mungo's. He descended the steps slowly, staring at the ground the whole time. No one had been told of the time that he would be leaving, because the Wizarding media would have been swarming all over him to find out the 'real' story from the man himself.

The Daily Prophet had followed his story closely from the minute he had been admitted, but Harry hadn't known any of this. He had been locked up in the Hospital Room and had become a prisoner of his own mind.

Now he was back out in the Wizarding World, he felt a terrible pain in his gut, a dull aching pain as if to remind him that Draco wasn't there, that he was still missing. Harry never thought of Draco as dead in his mind and thoughts, he always referred to him as missing. Somehow, he knew that if Draco were gone he would feel it. It wouldn't be this dull, terrible ache but a wrenching pang, which would kill him from inside slowly, until he couldn't take it anymore.

"Are you ready, Harry?" Dumbledore asked gently, touching a hand to the boy's elbow to get his attention.

Harry didn't say anything, only looked at Dumbledore once, hard, his emerald green eyes stretched with pain and refusal to acknowledge what everyone else had.

Dumbledore sighed, holding Harry's elbow tightly and frowning in concentration before Disapparating.

Privet Drive was quiet and totally empty. The Aurors had made sure of that. Even with the bright sunlight and hazy warmth, no one was outside and no one had seen them. Dumbledore loosened his grip, but did not lose contact with Harry's arm as he walked up to the front door of number four. He tapped the brass knocker sharply three times, then stepped back off the doorstep, straightening his pointed hat.

"Vernon!" Petunia Dursley's voice could be heard to call. "Vernon, he's back. I'm not answering the door. You get it."

"I'm not answering the ruddy door," Vernon Dursley replied, his booming voice travelling out of the open window. "The boy can stay out till Dudley returns with his key."

"But what if the neighbours see?" Petunia shrilled.

Dumbledore sighed and rolled his eyes, tapping the door with his wand and pushing it open.

"Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, I've brought Harry back to you," he said. "There is a note here from the medi... doctors at St. Mungo's for you regarding Harry's prescriptions and treatment, and his condition. I'm afraid you're going to have to be fairly attentive. If there are any problems, don't hesitate to call on us. There are contact details in this note," he explained. "He should be able to return to school on September the first, so you won't have to worry about him for too long."

Turning, he put a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Try to get some rest," he suggested gently. There were so many things he wanted to say, but none of them would help, except for the one thing that he wasn't allowed to say. Sighing sadly, he stepped outside and Disapparated.

Vernon Dursley stormed into his hallway much like a rampaging bull would have, except with a considerably redder face. "What have we told you?" he demanded, pushing his face up against Harry's. "Your lot are not allowed in our house!"

Harry stared at him blankly, holding the note tightly in his left hand. For some reason, this angered Harry's uncle more than he had ever been when he had answered back.

"That's it!" he roared, face now turning an interesting shade of purple. "Go to your room and don't come down till we tell you to. I don't want to see your face ever again."

"Vernon!" Petunia protested weakly. She reached out for the letter Harry held. "Come on, let's get all your things unpacked and settle you back in again," she said, putting an arm around his shoulders.

Vernon's jaw almost hit the ground. "P-Petunia, what are you doing?" he thundered, staring incredulously at the arm she had put around his nephew's shoulders.

Harry looked from Petunia to Vernon and took a step forward, clearing his throat. "It's OK," he said quietly. "I'll go to my room. I don't want to cause trouble."

He turned away from them both with a small smile to Petunia before heading up the stairs.

Vernon followed his journey out of narrowed eyes. "There's something not right with that boy."

"He's just come out of a mental hospital you idiot!" Petunia hissed. "Of course there's something not right with him! He needs help, and you're not bloody helping!"

Vernon looked slightly taken aback that his wife was defending his nephew in his own home. "That's right Petunia, a mental home," he said, turning to look at her. "The boy's not right in the head, it's safer to stay away from him. There's nothing wrong with Dudley, and I intend for it to stay that way."

"Madness isn't contagious, Vernon," Petunia said heavily. "And he's just very, very depressed. Apparently he lost someone very close to him," she said, reading the letter. "He refuses to believe that this person is really dead, despite all the evidence otherwise. We've all lost people we love. It's taken a lot out of him." She sighed. "We've treated him so badly. We're probably at least partly to blame."

"Those soaps you are watching have affected your mind, Petunia," Vernon replied, disgusted at what she was saying. "I'm going back to read my paper. Do what you want with the boy, but I'm telling you: he's a lost cause."

Petunia sighed and shook her head before going upstairs.

"Harry," she said, knocking softly on his door. "Can I get you anything?"

"No, thank you. I'm fine," Harry replied in a tired voice from the other side of the door.

Petunia looked doubtful. "Okay, but let me know if you do."

"I will."

There was a horrendous crash as the door downstairs slammed.

"Home," Dudley bellowed bluntly before clumping into the kitchen.

"Good to see you, Dudley," Vernon called. There was the sound of his paper being thrown into a bin then echoing footsteps as he walked into the kitchen to talk to Dudley. About what, Harry didn't know.

"Dudders!" Petunia said, trotting downstairs. Vernon certainly would not explain the situation in a favourable light, and she needed to try to make sure Harry was all right. Needless to say, this was partly because he would have to stay with them for ages if he didn't get fixed up.

"The boy's back and I want you to avoid him, Dudley. He's not right in the head, you see," he paused then carried on smoothly with, "Hello Petunia. Understand, son?"

"Harry needs peace and quiet," Petunia said doggedly. "Dudley, I don't want you bothering him."

"Yes," Vernon added hurriedly. "I don't want you even acknowledging his existence, it's better for you that way. Safer."

"Vernon," Petunia began, but she shook her head and sighed. "Never mind."

Vernon clapped Dudley on the back and gave him a stern look before walking out of the kitchen.

"Why's he so insane? Did someone die?" Dudley asked loudly.

"Yes, as a matter of fact. Don't mention it to him," Petunia said sharply.

"Who died?" Dudley asked immediately, piggy eyes brightening.

"Someone very close to him. I don't know who, and I don't want you asking him."

"Fair enough," Dudley said, with absolutely no intention of obeying.

***

"Harry," Dudley said, knocking on the door.

"Dudley," Harry replied in a monotone.

"Can I come in?" Dudley asked, opening the door anyway.

Harry was lying on his back on the bed. He was a lot taller and thinner than he had been the last time Dudley had seen him. His hair was shorter too, though still messy. His glasses were missing, and he was staring up at the ceiling impassively.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Who died?" Dudley asked, getting straight to the point.

"He's not dead, and my boyfriend," Harry replied, folding his arms over his waist.

"BOYFRIEND?" Dudley demanded incredulously. "You mean you're gay on top of all your other problems?"

"Not gay," Harry corrected. "Bisexual."

"Oh, just more confusion. What do you mean he isn't dead?" Dudley asked, sneering at him.

"He's alive, amazingly enough," Harry replied, turning his head to look at Dudley then back up at the ceiling.

"How do you know that?" Dudley asked shrewdly. "And since when are you gay?"

"If he was dead, then I would be too," Harry replied sternly. "I'm not gay."

"Ohh, was your love that deep?" Dudley asked in a simpering voice. "I thought you said you had a boyfriend. That's gay, isn't it?"

"Your head is too fat to understand," Harry explained patiently. "And no, it's a curse. But then, there's a prophecy about me also, meaning only this one person can kill me."

"Curses, prophecies? Come on, Potter the Poofter, what are you trying to pull?"

"I'm not pulling anything, but I can be doing something to you," Harry replied, his hand straying to where his wand was lay on his bed.

"We know you're not allowed to do that," Dudley scoffed, but he backed away. "Harry the Homo, trying to be scary."

Harry shrugged. "I was in a mental institution. You don't know what I might do."

"Potter the Potty Poofter!" Dudley laughed, pointing at him.

Harry shrugged the comments off and went back to staring at the ceiling.

"Wake up, you're so boring!" Dudley whined after a moment.

"Don't you have anything better to do?" Harry asked finally, crossing his legs at the ankle.

"No," Dudley answered blankly.

The corner of Harry's mouth lifted in a smirk and he continued to stare at the ceiling. "How many people did you beat up today then?"

"I don't remember," Dudley answered boastfully. "Lost count."

"Can't count," Harry corrected.

"Piss off, you homo," Dudley spat.

"Don't you have any better insults?" Harry asked, treating him to a calm stare.

"I don't need them," Dudley said. "That's bad enough."

"You keep telling yourself that," Harry said dryly, crossing his arms behind his head.

"I will," Dudley said proudly. "Harry the Homo sounds good, I reckon."

Harry nodded before closing his eyes. "Got a girlfriend yet?" he asked finally.

"Yeah," Dudley said. "But that wouldn't interest you, would it? Got other interests, haven't you?"

"What did you do?" Harry replied, brushing the comment about himself off. "Pay her?"

"I didn't have to," Dudley snapped. "Unlike you. Into rent-boys?"

"Is she blind?" Harry asked curiously, opening his eyes to look at Dudley thoughtfully. "And desperate?"

"No," Dudley shouted. "I'm sick of this. Don't want to be in a room with you. Being gay might be contagious." He stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

Harry smirked and closed his eyes once more, finally alone.

***

The sun had long since set, street-lamps flickering into life, their flat halogen glow staining long boxes across the ceiling. Still, Harry lay awake, ankles crossed and arms folded over his stomach. A gentle breeze ruffled the hedges and billowed Harry's curtains slightly through his open window. The cool, gentle touch of it felt like soft hands on his face, hands he did not want to think about.

There was a clatter out in the street, a cat meowed and a dog barked in the distance. A car revved up and lights ran across the ceiling, then all was quiet again.

Except for a sort of scraping noise coming from the roof. Harry paid no attention to it at first, but it grew louder and closer. There was a sort of grunt and a clatter. He tipped his head back as far as he could to look at the window curiously.

"Shit." There was a muffled yelp and a tile slid off the roof, clattering on the roof of the porch and rustling as it landed in the shrubbery.

Then suddenly there was a hand gripping the gutter and a person's head and shoulders appeared upside down over the side of the roof.

It was Draco.

Harry did not see Draco. Although he was looking straight at him, he couldn't see him. A small frown etched itself on his features.

Draco swore loudly, body sliding over his head until he dangled with his back to the window. He swung his foot back and hooked it over the windowsill, pulling himself back and tumbling onto Harry's floor. Rough blond stubble covered his jaw, and his hair was long, messy and unkempt.

"Hello Harry," he said quietly, grinning up at him from where he lay on the floor.

Harry stared at him blankly, green eyes unmoving, not acknowledging that Draco was sat on the floor.

Draco rolled up onto his knees, shaking his hair out of his eyes.

"Harry?" he asked, frowning slightly and waving a hand in front of Harry's face.

Harry's hand came out suddenly, grabbing Draco's hand to stop it waving in front of his face. "W-Who?" he asked quietly, frowning.

"Harry, fucking hell, I thought you were dead," Draco laughed, resting his elbow on the side of the bed. "It's me, Draco. Remember?"

"No," the voice was quiet, barely above that of a whisper. "No, you can't be. No, no, no...."

"Why not?" Draco said, unpeeling Harry's fingers from his wrist. "I can be someone else if you really want." His grin was faltering slightly. "Harry, what's wrong?"

"No," Harry whispered suddenly, his green eyes filling with tears and looking so full of pain it would hurt to look him straight in the eye. "You can't be, they said you were, you can't, you can't. They said you were... but... it's not... I can't..." He shook his head from side to side furiously.

"Who said I was what?" Draco asked, eyes hardening. He stood up, and he had grown a couple of inches since he'd been away. "Harry, what's going on?"

"You're not here, you're not here," he repeated over and over again, shaking his head furiously, tears flying from his eyes to land on the bedcovers. "They told me that you can't be, you're dead, you're not here."

His voice was pained, sounding like it was going to crack at any minute. His eyes were distant as he remembered St Mungo's. "You're not here, you can't be. Go away!"

"I'm not fucking dead, Harry, look at me!" Draco said angrily, throwing his arms wide. "Whoever told you that was lying."

"You're not real, you're just in my mind. Go away. Stop it!" Harry sat up, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them, still shaking his head. "Stopitstopitstopitstopit! GET OUT OF MY FUCKING HEAD!"

Draco's immediate expression was one of terrible pain, but it was replaced by one of anger and bitterness. A sneer curled his lip.

"Right, I think I will go," he said flatly. "Look at you. You're completely fucked up. Who'd want to be in your head anyway?"

Then, with a whip crack sound, he vanished.

Harry started shaking and buried his head in his arms, mumbling various words wildly, but no one was there to hear them.