THE DEVIL'S WHITE KNIGHT→h.p

whispers in the silence

sequel !

"...since last night and I'm not sure..." Draco hesitated, desperately hating how pathetic and weak he sounded, hating that he was begging the Weasleys, of all people, for information. These were not his Weasleys, of course, these were not the people who knew him. At least, not the part of him who stumbled into this world and relived an entire childhood in order to erase what had been. All the same, he couldn't erase the wrongness of having to ask where his lover had gone because he was stupid enough to be busy now, of all dates.

"I'm sure he's fine. Does he...do this a lot?" Fred was asking.

Draco's jaw clenched. "That's not exactly your business, is it?" He was being defensive and they knew it. He took a breath and calmed himself. "I'll just...I'll check in with his parents."

And then it hit him, and he felt like a fool because he should have known. He didn't bother telling Thing One about his discovery, instead grabbing his wand and deciding he gave exactly zero shits about who might see him appear randomly in the middle of a suburban street.

It looked the same. Draco had only seen Little Whinging once or twice, flying round it for patrols in the short time he'd been forced to participate. By then the entire world was in disarray and he really didn't register much of what was going on apart from doing what he could to survive. But yes, it looked the same. Well-manicured and put together and so, so muggle.

He could feel the magic, and hoped Potter had a damned good excuse for when someone came to investigate why the bloody hell so much magic had been used in one little area. Draco was not surprised to find the door to Number Twelve half open, or that the magic was coming from there. He didn't need to be an expert to feel the charm Harry'd used to knock them all out.

He was there, too, just inside. The door to the cupboard under the stairs half open with Harry's too-large body crammed in front of it. He had his back to the jamb and his knees to his chest, head tipped forward. His glasses were clutched in his right hand, cracked from the strain, and Draco had a feeling Harry didn't realise they'd broken. There was a slight tremble in his fingers, but that was normal.

"I forgot it was Halloween," Draco said.

He knew some. He didn't know a lot—didn't know everything. He knew what he'd been told in his first life, during his first childhood. He knew the attack had come on Halloween because it had always been a strange, sombre day in his home growing up—sort of anxious, like his father was anticipating the Dark Lord to pop round the corner, slinking out of the shadows to demand why Lucius hadn't ever done anything during his absence.

Draco hadn't understood it when he was little, but by sixteen well...

Harry let out a tiny puff of air. "I didn't hurt them."

Draco blinked, then sat against the open door. It thudded against the wall, probably leaving a mark, but he didn't really care. His legs stretched out in front of him from under his robes, and he briefly wished he'd bothered with some muggle trousers because the breeze felt a little awkward. His hand twitched, a sort of unfamiliar burst of sympathy and want to pull Harry close and make all the pain stop. But no amount of shagging or even—merlin forbid—cuddling, was going to stop it.

Harry lifted his head, his eyes squinted, his myopic vision no-doubt trying to focus on Draco's face. He did it in the mornings, too, trying to see Draco as clearly as he could without dislodging himself to reach for his glasses. Speccy git. Fuck. He loved him, and he was profoundly grateful he didn't need to say it, that Potter was at least adept enough to understand him. "The muggles didn't fight back when I turned up. I wanted to know what was here. I wanted to know if it would still hurt."