Samsara's Curse (Drarry Slowburn)

THE HALLOWED HALLOW

Despite Harry and Draco's concern, Hermione promised once more that she was fine after the rogue soulfire incident, claiming that she felt well enough to Apparate home. After everything she had been through, it was comparable to a small papercut. 

They parted ways at around ten o'clock, and Harry Apparated home with Draco in tow. They could've used the Crescent Key, but they wanted to discard their dirt-caked shoes at the front door before tracking a mess through the living room.

As he lifted his satchel strap overhead, Harry remembered the conversation he had with Draco during the ritual. So much had happened afterward that he completely neglected to deliver the Cloak to its new owner.

He retrieved it from his tattered bag, and for a moment, Draco seemed to forget his new ownership, as well. Such a relic was not easily forgotten, except for when the night played out like a caffeinated soap opera. Placing it in the fanged Slytherin's hands, Harry winked, "For your ascension."

Draco did as Harry asked of him and accepted it as if it were his own, no questions asked. He had no intention to use it for anything practical—he couldn't, without using magic to reduce his height. But it was a gestalt of something much greater, like the first painting of a triptych.

-x-

The next day, Harry and Draco proceeded through morning and afternoon as if the last twenty-four hours hadn't been a chaotic shit show.

Draco was on the edge of his seat while reading the sequel of his book, rapidly nearing the end. Most of Hollow City took place in the 1900s, but a lot of the author's references were practically inside jokes among Muggles, so he would oftentimes ask out-of-the-blue questions while at the dining table.

"What's an LCD screen?" Draco chimed, "They said the subway is filled with them."

With that context, Harry took out his phone and showed him the bright display, "It's kind of like this but just bigger."

Draco nodded, going back to his reading with a better mental image, enjoying the elysian air of mundane activities. It was necessary to keep from worrying about Merry's recovery—she probably would've called them pansies for doing such a thing, anyhow.

After finishing the first book in the series, Draco's knowledge of the modern Muggle world had increased substantially, and one could assume (and be correct) that his odd inquiries used to occur far more frequently. Harry vividly recalled how these brief conversations went.

"What's a .22?" Draco would ask, saying "period" instead of "point."

Harry would correct him politely, answering, "It's a kind of gun."

Draco would get quiet.

Sensing the question before he asked it, Harry would sigh, "It's a weapon that shoots projectiles."

A few minutes later, after going back to his book, Draco would look up once more, "Who is Jeffrey Dahmer?"

Harry would just gawk. The questions Draco asked tended to paint the book series in a very strange light, and it was ten times worse when he was riding the high of Luna's Crumble Cookies.

"Why was London being bombed in the forties?" Draco would ask innocently.

Harry choked on his food, feeling like he had been run over by a train. How was he supposed to explain the last eighty years of Muggle history in one sentence?

After delivering a relatively poor retelling of London's involvement in the second Muggle war, Draco had a few other follow-up questions, but they weren't ones Harry could really answer. He wasn't that big of a history buff.