Melancholia | Drarry

glass and shingles

It takes a bright purple car, spewing smoke and bouncing along the countryside path, for Harry to realize that something is wrong. Honeysuckle, dangling from the windowsills, the cinnamon-apple scent of baking turnovers in the kitchen, Lily opening the curtains to admire the twilight, the moor wreathed in heather - the scene is familiar to Harry, but the car looks like something he once saw in London.

Yes, he remembers; he saw it that summer, from a hotel window two stories off the ground. The brilliantly purple low-rider, bass thumping a grand percussion along with the squeaks of suspension. Harry chuckled at the strange sight and turned to tell Draco to come see. Pale limbs tangled in the sheets, eyes that drooped - he was no morning person.

Harry gasps, taking his hands off the windowsill as if burned. He suddenly feels bigger, taller, more tired, and he touches his face, feeling the stubble.

"Draco!" He calls wildly. Please don't be gone, please don't-

"What?" Harry turns to see Draco toddling down the hall, a little boy in an overlarge sweater, then an ambling teenager, then himself, running a hand through his lavender-colored hair. Draco blinks at Harry, mouth falling open slightly. "Oh, no."

"What's happening?" Harry whirls back to the window, where streets take over the moor, asphalt from London and Ashfell and New York City swallowing the childhood garden, the solitary swing set. The present begins to seep into the house, too, and Harry watches helplessly as the gleaming, wooden floorboards lose their shine and color. The house plants shrivel and fade away, and Harry runs to the living room, where the furniture slowly morphs into the worn armchair, the pullout couch.

"Stay with me," Harry murmurs, and Draco takes his hand as the house creaks and groans around them. "What about..."

Lily, bright-eyed, still in the kitchen, stirring a pot of something he's forgotten.

"Mum!" Not again. Not again. Tears fill Harry's eyes - the days, the weeks he'd spent here, all for nothing. He knows that they were minutes, really, spent in jest, because he couldn't imagine, didn't even want to think that she'd leave him once more.

"Harry." Draco kneels, for Harry has crouched, bending over and sobbing in despair. "Shh. It's too late." His hands are firm on his shoulders.

"No. No, no, no..."

"We have to be ready for what comes next." The past screams in glass and shingles all around them, but Draco's voice is soft and warm in Harry's ear. "You need to brace yourself."

Harry shakes his head furiously, and Draco grips him still, holding him. "I can't. I can't."

"You can, Harry. You have to."

And then the moor is swallowed for good, and all is silent, save for a clipped, robotic beep.

∞ ∞ ∞

Padma sighs, cracking her knuckles as she leans back from the computer. She turns her head to find Luna at her elbow, and jumps, startled.

"Sorry!" Luna steps back, silver eyes wide with apology. "I brought you this." She holds out a mug of coffee.

"Oh - Thank you." Padma takes it and sips. It's nearly black, with a dribble of milk, and no sugar. "It's just how I like it. How did you know?"

Luna smiles, brushing a sheet of blonde hair over her shoulder. "I pay attention."

The coffee sends a much-needed jolt through Padma's tired system. She stares at the monitor, watching the red slowly but surely devour the green. The erasing has continued, for now.