Wandering Ghost

Draco Malfoy likes to watch people. He likes to sit unnoticed on a train platform, or at a bus stop, listening to the conversations of the surrounding. Their families, friends, strangers, mobile phones, even those plugs in their ears, the music filling their ears. He likes to guess where they're going, who they're going to see. Their names, their jobs, whether they'll make enough difference to make enough people care.

One day Draco will be in London, the next maybe New York. A remote Caribbean island followed by a busy Japanese street. He likes to travel, see the sun rise in all corners of the world. Mostly he just plays "Spot the Wizard". It's not hard. They'll always be the ones who sense something when he passes. Sometimes he'll follow them for ten minutes, lurking in the shadows, reaching out to touch their cloaked shoulders, but then pull away, on to another time, another place, another life, before the blurry tips of his fingers get a chance to make contact.

He likes to watch the Muggles. Sitting outside on the driveways of their identical houses, leaving the pale ghost of his breath on the windows. The dusty fingerprints on the shelves, that one blown out bulb in the long string of fairy lights, that flash of bright white light in the corner of your newly developed photographs. He will be in that chilly winter draught whistling its way through the slim cracks in the doorframe, or those slight rustles in the bushes that makes the neighbours dog bark profusely.

But mostly, Draco will be the one watching Harry Potter.

When Harry sits alone by the lake, staring out at the icy grey water and blaming himself, Draco is reflecting in the ripples, telling him it's not his fault. He is always there when Harry lies awake at night, back turned to Seamus, Neville and Dean, mind filled with images of Ron. Draco knows this is the only time Harry allows himself to think of his best friend, and so he stays still, hovering in the corner. The last few nights Ron has been there as well, crouched by his empty bed, tears glistening on his cheeks. Draco listens silently to the muffled sobs and then leaves, although one eye is still on that room in Gryffindor Tower as he walks back along amongst the twinkling lights of Hollywood through the falling snow.

Draco does not like to get too close. The bubble around him dances when he does, the lines of his body becoming even more transitory. He once reached out so far that the blurry tips began to slip away like grains of sand caught in the wind. That scared him slightly, that he could be so near to people, but was really so far away. He was plagued, a heavy blanket that appeared to smother what he really wanted most. To live.

Sometimes late at night, when the last few house lights have been extinguished to leave only the pale orange glow of the streetlights, Draco will try to remember, yet can only find this mind filled with what he thinks and not what he knows for sure. He tries to bring back the taste of things. Juicy peaches, greasy strips of chicken, the sweet taste of frothy butterbeer. Standing at shop windows, nose pressed against the glass, he'll watch as Muggles take lollipops and chocolate, mints and little cakes. He knows that somewhere he can recall what they all taste like, exactly how they feel in his mouth, but it all seems lost, back somewhere that can never return.

When Draco closes his eyes, he does not see darkness. He sees everything but. Rainbows shimmering over waterfalls, deep red rock caverns that will echo for days, and the snow covered very tips of the tallest mountains. He sees smiles on the faces of tanned little children, laughter in their eyes. The sun rising over white-washed buildings by quaint little beaches, waves lapping at golden sand. He can see cubs and lions, tongue-flicking lizards and pearly white antlers on a herd of stags, surrounded by one hundred metre trees. He sees the world, but it doesn't matter, because they don't see him.

Sometimes Draco feels like he can fly. He can sit on the clouds and watch Harry, swinging his legs through fluffy cotton. He watched Harry as he went about his normal days, going to lessons, finishing exams, visiting the war memorial. Draco was by Harry's side as he left Hogwarts for the last time, as he said goodbye to his past. He was right by the memories of Ron as they filtered to the back of Harry's mind, not gone but no longer the last thing he thought of at night. Draco was at every birthday party, every time Hermione or Fred or Neville came by to drag him out. He watched as Harry got older, wiser. How he looked at other people, his friends marrying, having children. Draco was there when Harry became a godfather for the first time, and he was by his side laughing when he got stuck with babysitting.

Draco was there on Harry's last day. He knew it had come; he'd been waiting a long time. The angels whispered loudly that day, their songs were more peaceful, calm. They told Draco what he'd been expecting, their songs echoed mournfully in his ears, and so he visited Earth for the last time.

Draco walked by his side as Harry took his last stroll. He ran his hand along the warm silver taps as Harry took his last bath. He watched the colourful changes of the television reflect in Harry's eyes as he saw his last programme. He sat next to him on the bed, looking at the old man before him that he'd seen grow up, and as eternal sleep claimed Harry Potter, he reached out and found that his blurry fingertips no longer faded away.

Draco had wondered how long it would take Harry to find him. If Harry would be able to sense him, hunt him out how Draco had with him. He did not have to wait long. It had been a day since his soul had travelled to the clouds, one day spent with Ron. Then Draco saw the sixteen year old boy with the dark hair and the lightening shaped scar barrelling towards him, so happy to see him that he knocked him down.

And then, because of that one split second, it no longer mattered that he couldn't taste fruits or sweets or greasy chicken, or that the rest of the world didn't know he was there. It didn't matter that he was forever sixteen, a lost soul that would never grow old.

Nothing mattered anymore, because heaven allows you to see the things you would've liked to have seen when you were living.