The Bolthole

Chapter 1

It was probably because Draco came to him marked with Ron and Hermione's care, their affection, that he looked so quiet and dear, like his narrow shoulders were marked with the careful pat of their hands, his hair tidied under Hermione's purse-mouthed consideration. He looked more familiar, safer. It was only when Harry slanted a sideways glimpse that he caught the thin mouth and the glitter of his eyes and remembered who Draco was, what he had always been: a problem.

Harry had been early at the station. He hadn't a notion of the distance between his house and the rest of the world, anymore, and ended up with the damp paper on which had been written the time and the train—standing for a good half hour, staring at a towering big weed that grew out of the brick of the wall opposite. He wasn't nervous, or anxious. He was mostly nothing much.

It was dark, and the train platform was empty except for the two of them. No one else had got off at this stop, only Draco, luggage in hand. A faint, cold drizzle came down, catching in Harry's beard. His beanie had soaked through, as had his ratty red jumper. He smelled like a wet dog, he knew he did. Draco didn't mention it, as he came in for a brief, awkward, surprising hug. Harry hadn't expected it: he put his arm clumsily around Draco's shoulder, felt the warmth and breath of him close against his side for a moment before Draco backed away, clearing his throat.

"Thank you," said Draco. Grey eyes big in his face, almost asking a question with his gratitude— are you sure? Is this okay?

"Is that all you brought?" asked Harry, taking Draco's carpet bag from him. It was about nine times heavier than it looked. Draco laughed, glanced around, and cast a quick lightening charm.

"Wasn't sure you'd have any books," said Draco.

"I have books!"

"Wasn't sure," said Draco. Harry shook his head, wondering, again, again, if he had made a mistake in inviting Draco to stay.

He's so cut up, Hermione had said. He just needs to get out of that house.

It was still an off thing, even after all these years, to hear the tone of voice Hermione adopted when speaking of Draco—of her worry for Draco. She'd been worried for him ever since eighth year, in one way or another. Was he eating enough, was he drinking too much, perhaps he seemed too sad, or too energetic. As if he might, any day now, turn into something unfamiliar to her again, and the only way she could keep it from happening was by shaving and shaving at his edges, worrying over them.

She'd been right, perhaps. Draco did look a bit unsteady, as they went through the platform gate to the little winding road, lit only by the yellowy haze of a single street lamp. He looked fragile, as if he was on a rough come-down, as if he'd spent too long partying and now was paying for it. Harry was struck by the odd but not unfamiliar desire to tuck him into bed. Draco, apparently unaware of Harry's bizarre lapse into affection, traipsed after Harry with sightless eyes. Within minutes, Draco was breathless, although they weren't walking particularly fast.

"Can't we Apparate?" he asked.

"Oh. Yeah," said Harry, who hadn't gone anywhere in so long that he had more or less forgotten about Apparition. "Side along?"

Draco held out an elbow. Harry looked at it for a moment before taking it. The bones of Draco's elbow were fine under his hand.

Grummock Cottage had been nice when Harry bought it. He told himself: a good place to pause. He had bought it furnished, without visiting. Had simply given several million pounds to an estate agent with a description of what he wanted, and trusted to chance.

He still remembered how it looked, the day he moved in, all clean and inviting and fresh. It had been a spring day, early May. In the sun it was warm and the shade carried a past season's chill, and a breeze got under his shirt and moved over his skin and everything about it made Harry feel new and like he was moving toward something different and better than what had come before.The cottage was nestled between a broad line of rhododendrons in full bloom and a willow, a bright green willow. There was a bench under the willow, and in it engraved the phrase: Just a little longer. Harry had asked the estate agent what that meant, once, when he passed through town; she hadn't had an answer for him. Only that an old couple once lived there, and they didn't have any children. The wife passed away a few years ago. The husband recently broke a hip, and ended up in care.