Painkiller - A Drarry Fanfiction

Part 025

Sitting at Harry's desk, I nervously flip through my book, the pages clinging onto my clammy fingers. I listen to the distant conversation that travels from the floor below, but no words can be made out. Despite there being no raised voices or destructive noises of violence, my senses are tense and alert. I try to think of all the ways this could go well as steps move into the kitchen, voices becoming barely distinguishable.

They could pick a fight. Or sign the form.

They could hit Harry again. Or let him out of their life.

They could keep their disgusting grip on Harry until the very last moment they possibly can. Or set him free.

I toss the book onto Harry's bed and rub a frustrated hand over my face. What if things go wrong? What would Harry do if things went the way he assumed? Was convincing him to do this a terrible mistake?

"...for you!"

The muffled voice of Vernon pierces my ear. The tone is contained, but about to overflow with rage. I find myself on my feet, heading for the door. My hand is on the knob when another voice manages to reach me.

"Do you hear yourself? This is fucking ridiculous!"

It's Harry.

There's more talking, but it isn't loud enough for me to hear. A ghostly chill shoots up my spine. I feel my wand in my pocket and turn the knob in my hand.

But before I can step into the hall, loud stomps climb the stairs. In a blink, Harry is on the second floor landing, shoving past me into his room. What I manage to catch of his face is burning cheeks, pursed lips, and a tight set jaw.

Words don't have enough time to form in my head as Harry throws open his wardrobe and starts snatching clothes onto the floor, followed by a dusty backpack from under his bed. "We're leaving," Harry declares. The tremble of anger in his voice terrifies me.

I did make a terrible mistake. "What?" I blurt.

"We're leaving," he repeats, stuffing his backpack with random clothes that his grip lands on.

I open my mouth to say more, but whatever would've come out is sucked back in by Harry zipping up his now packed bag and leaving the room past me again. This time, he storms into my room and pulls it apart. The first thing he does is rip my clothes off their hangers, too. I can see the veins on his temple, hear the harshness of his breathing.

"Harry, this isn't—" I say, trying to get a hold of Harry's wrists. "What is going on? Why are we leaving?"

Without an answer, Harry hits my hand away and returns to "packing" my things. It's as if he doesn't see, he doesn't hear.

Eyes set firmly on his, I reach again. Even though just barely, I manage to wrap one hand around his delicate wrist, pulling him towards me. Caught mid-motion, he stumbles and almost falls into me, but quickly stands his ground. I don't let go of him, or his gaze. "I have to know why, Harry," I say steadily as Harry's steaming breath grazes my neck. "Why are we running away?"

The look on his thin, little face is painfully familiar—the same look of disgust and horror from three weeks ago, the morning I came here. "We're not running away," he breathes through gritted teeth.

A helpless sigh of regret huffs out of me. "Okay, yes, we're not—"

It's as I lose focus, as I loosen my grip on him, that Harry tears himself away. Picking up a few of the many clothes off the ground, he chucks them to the corner of the room where my bag lays open. "You don't have to come with me," he says plainly.

He's already gone by the time the words set in.

/////

How loudly, how desperately I call after him changes nothing. He rushes out of the house and across the driveway with strides determined with pain. There doesn't seem to be a way to stop him, not with useless, repetitive questions.

Catching up, I grab Harry's arm harder than I mean to, turning him around to face me. The guilt and frustration that grips my limbs makes my stomach squirm, but I swallow it down. The fire in his emerald eyes rips through my chest. I take a breath, but my voice still trembles. "Where are we going?"

I can feel Harry tensing even more under my grip. "I said you don't have to come." He sounds oddly calm, as if nothing is worth it anymore.

"No, I want to go with you—I will, Harry," I say. "I won't give up on you, I won't let go of you, and I won't ever leave you. So please, see me, just as I see you. Please don't push me away."

There's a moment, so cold and so still. Harry doesn't break the silence and looks away from me. The strength in my hand seeming to drain, my grip on his arm slides off. Breaths come in halted jumps and I realize I'm crying. I take a step back.

"I hated you, Draco." Harry's sudden voice surprises me. "I hated them, but I hated magic more, my parents more, and you more. All I knew was what they told me, that some uncontrollable wizard killed my parents and they were the only means of life I had. All I knew was that my parents were irresponsible and reckless, that magic ruined my life, and that I needed protection and saving. All I knew was the you were a wizard, that you were supposed to be dangerous, and that I loathed you for it." He takes a step forward. Then, he places a shaking hand on my cheek, carefully wiping the tear away. "All I knew were lies, Draco, but I still... I don't deserve you. Even if I deserve the world, I don't deserve you."

The wind is knocked out of me. Harry's words echo in my ear, his touch warm on my skin. I scramble to hold Harry's hand, the fingers soaked in my tears. "No, no, no..." I whisper. "Please, don't—"

Harry squeezes my hand back. "I can't do this to you, Draco," he says, a bitterness in his voice.

I shake my head and try to sound as strong as I possibly can. "I'm going with you. Anywhere it is, I'm going with you."

My heart drops as I feel Harry's hand slipping away. "Draco—"

I let go of him first. "I'll bring my things," I say, already walking away. "Stay right here, I'll—"

"I'm sorry—"

"I'll follow you until you see me, Harry, see that you deserve all of me!" I shout from the front porch.

Before I hear another word, I close the front door behind me and fly up the stairs. It's easy to brush away the tears as they're replaced by burning will. I take a quivering breath in and a steady breath out, and collect everything out of my room.