Not Much Left

Not Much Left

The last streaks of red and purple fade from the sky, and the breeze off of the lake turns cold. Malfoy rubs his hands together, blowing a silvery fog through his fingers before plunging them into the pockets of his cloak.

'I wouldn't mind a drink, Potter. Have you got any Firewhisky?'

Harry is almost impressed by the depth of Malfoy's shamelessness. Then he shakes his head. 'I never touch the stuff. Not anymore.' He watches for a reaction. When none comes, he silently flicks a warming charm in Malfoy's direction.

After a moment, Malfoy says, 'I could've done that myself, you know.'

Harry shrugs and skips a stone across the darkened water, making a conscious effort not to think about what else Malfoy is capable of doing to himself. The concentric rings ripple outwards under the moonlight. They look so soothing, so tranquil. But eventually, the memories and the anger stubbornly begin to push their way through to the surface.

'Tea then?'

Harry wants him to leave. He's got no right coming here, offering nothing but small talk and heavy, empty silences that disrupt the peace Harry has built here. But instead of sending him away, he says, 'Yeah, all right.'

Harry leads the way to Hagrid's hut, which is now his. At least until the school reopens in September and he decides where to go next. Somewhere quiet, somewhere Unplottable.

Malfoy stands at the window, looking up at the castle, while Harry puts the kettle on and warms a pair of oversized mugs.

'Looks almost as good as new. You can't even tell the place was rubble six months ago.'

'Of course you can,' Harry argues. 'The stone is all new. It doesn't have the same feeling it used to.' It doesn't feel like home anymore. Then, for some reason, he backs down. 'I guess it's not so noticeable in the dark.'

'No, I guess not. But it's here, and as far as I can tell, there's not even a trace of Dark Magic left.'

Harry tips the kettle too quickly, and the boiling water splashes out, scalding his hand. He curses and slams the kettle back down on the stove.

'I suppose we've got you to thank for that. I'm surprised you haven't told the world by now. All that fame and glory. Isn't that what you've always wanted? Oh yeah, and probably the cover of Witch Weekly, too.' He reaches for the milk, already annoyed that he has said anything, but Malfoy catches his wrist and shoves him up against the counter.

For a moment, Harry is aware of nothing but the feel of their skin touching. In the months since they last saw each other, he has tried to forget Draco's hands and mouth, and the way he used them to trick Harry into feeling again. He had to ply both Harry and himself with liquor the first time, but after that it must have seemed just like any other assignment Malfoy had ever been given by either side. Results were what mattered. And it had worked. Just enough to draw Harry out of his stupor of loss so that he could face Voldemort one last time. Just enough to be useful.

Harry pushes with all his strength and sends Malfoy crashing into the table and then, balance lost, to the floor.

They stare at each other for a long moment before Malfoy gets to his feet. He brushes off his cloak and advances towards Harry again. But he only takes one of the mugs of tea, stirs in a little milk and sugar and sits down at the table.

After a while, Harry follows.

His skin still feels like it's on fire, and as much as he has been wanting to hex Malfoy to the other side of Scotland, now he also longs to touch him. To let that fire consume him again. He wants to burn away to dust and ashes. Reason hardly matters.

'... a Slytherin as Headmaster, even if the best they could do was Slughorn. But I hardly think Wood is a suitable replacement for Madam Hooch....'

Harry hasn't heard half of what Malfoy is rambling on about, talking as if nothing has happened, as if they are old friends comfortable in each other's company.

Harry gets up and opens a cupboard. Pulls down the bottle he has ignored for months. There's not much left, but it might be enough.

~ The End ~