a grave for flowers | drarry

chapter 8

chapter 8

Potter stayed to help clean up. 

The curious thing was, he didn't use magic. He just picked up the undamaged flowers, occasionally asking Draco which pot they were supposed to be in, and then gently dropped them into their proper place. For the damaged ones, he created a pile on the kitchen counter. 

For a moment, the mound of flowers blurred into a mountain of corpses—

Draco blinked, hard. 

"I told them," Potter said, breaking the fragile silence that had slowly frosted over the room. He grabbed a dustpan from the corner of the kitchen and started sweeping up the scattered soil. "Believe me, I did."

"Pardon?" Draco asked.

"I told them your wards were too weak. That there are people out to get you. They didn't listen." He pinched a marigold petal tightly between his thumb and forefinger.

Draco tried his best not to look as baffled as he felt. He tried not to reach out and hold Potter's words close to him like a jar of fire on a cold winter's day. "I don't understand," he said quietly. 

"Don't understand what?"

"Why you'd be interested in wasting the Ministry's resources to protect a war criminal."

Potter half-blinked, the petal slipping from his fingers. There was a perpetual crease in his brow that Draco had never noticed before, but supposed it had always been there. Was it from surprise, this time? Was he just as oblivious to his own intentions as Draco?

In the end, Potter just shrugged and said, "We were all criminals, fighting for different things. The line gets a little blurry sometimes."

And then he walked out, and Draco was left to a kitchen full of miserable flowers with bent stems.

♢

"Should've let the Death Eaters get him," Ron said with a seething malice. "They would've done things that are illegal for us to do."

Hermione quietly sipped her tea beside him, with only the slight crease in her brown giving away her confliction. Harry looked out the window at the streets of Diagon Alley. The late February air was slowly losing its chilly edge and the sun was climbing higher into the sky every day.

When Ron realized no one was reacting, he aggressively grabbed his own teacup. "It would've been what he deserved, the Slytherin git," he muttered before gulping the tea down.

The words slipped out before Harry could stop them. "The Hat wanted to sort me into Slytherin."

Both Ron and Hermione looked up at him in confusion.

"It was really adamant about it, really," Harry shrugged. He never planned to tell them, especially when they were in school; he was so terrified that they might think him to be the next Voldemort. But there was no going back now. "Actually, it practically begged me. Gave me every reason under the sun to choose Slytherin. But I refused... it was funny, looking back. I was less worried about being in the same house that Voldemort used to be in than the fact that I'd have to room with Malfoy."

Ron looked like he didn't know what to say. He opened his mouth, went red in the face from the indecision, and closed it again. Hermione, meanwhile, tilted her head.

"So, why did it pick Gryffindor in the end?" she asked.

Harry didn't say anything for a long while.

"You nearly had a Hatstall, didn't you?" Harry said suddenly. "You sat up there for nearly five minutes. What did the Hat say to you?"

Hermione looked surprised that he remembered. "I... well, the Hat just kept muttering to itself. And then finally it made up its mind and told me I'd do better in Gryffindor."

"Did you want to be in Gryffindor?"

"Sure I did," Hermione laughed, "But I didn't really think I would actually get in. I thought I'd be better off in Ravenclaw with all the other know-it-alls. At least I wouldn't get bullied there."

She picked up her teacup again and swirled it around. "And yet the Hat chose Gryffindor," she sighed. "What a life-changing thing that was."

Harry gave her the ghost of a smile. "I wonder what would have happened if the Hat got its way. If I were in Slytherin. Reckon Voldemort would still be dead right now?"

Hermione sniffed, looking uncomfortable with the idea of Harry as a Slytherin. "The fact that you had the nerve to argue with the Hat shows you belonged in Gryffindor from the start. But if you had been in Slytherin..."

"Wouldn't have changed anything, mate," Ron abruptly said. "Not a single bit. We'd still be here, best mates, drinking tea, Voldemort gone."

And all three of them immediately ducked their heads down to stare into their dwindling cups of cooling tea, knowing full well it was a lie. Knowing full well how insignificant things carry weight years later. Would they still have been friends, had the Hat decided to ignore Harry's pleas?

Unlikely.

They really ought to do away with the whole House rivalry thing, Harry mused to himself. He wondered if McGonagall would accept such a proposal.

He chuckled to himself, half bitter, half amused. Probably not. 

♢

"I fucking hate this place," Harry announced to no one in particular as he stepped through the door of Grimmauld Place. "I hate it here. Do you hear me?" He kicked the hatstand over, knowing full well it would simply bounce back into place. He stomped into the kitchen in irritation. Half the fun of making a mess out of anger was savoring the mess you've created. Magic was annoying that way.

I need a drink, Harry thought. It was less of a need than a habit at this point. Some days, the only thing that would get him through a sleepless night was a shot of Firewhiskey. Today, he didn't bother with the glass and went straight for the bottle. 

He wasn't sure why. He had gotten into standoffs with former Death Eaters before. This was nothing new to him. He had met his friends afterward, chatted for a bit before parting ways. In all honesty, it was one of the better days.

But fighting had lost its edge, the adrenaline rush. Life-threatening situations become less threatening when you've already literally met Death. 

Harry was an addict, and his drug was danger. But he was slowly building tolerance, and the hits weren't enough.

So he drank himself into a stupor to blur the edges of his emptiness. The memories plagued his consciousness still, but he wouldn't be paranoid and restless and empty while they did. The usual sharp, cold clarity of fear faded into something warmer, something more manageable. 

He drank, knowing that when the last drop was gone, his problems would be waiting for him at the bottom of the bottle.