By The Light Of A Dying Flame ~ Drarry Fanfic

Chapter 7: Harry

The next morning, Harry trudged downstairs to find Malfoy asleep on the couch, sitting fully upright, his chin tucked into his chest. The ropes were cutting marks into his skin, and he was still shirtless, the fireplace just a pile of dark ashes. Harry almost felt a twinge of guilt, his own bare arms chilled in the morning air. As he passed by the couch, he waved the hawthorn wand. The ropes disappeared, and Malfoy sagged into the cushion, his head rolling back, still somehow asleep.

Harry made his way outside, blinking in the watery morning sunlight. The air tasted of salt, and his long hair lifted in the cool breeze. He watched the water as it wavered out toward the horizon, beyond the rocky island. He remembered his aunt and uncle shuttling him across that same water on a small boat, a violent storm raging around them, and it felt as if an eternity had passed between then and now. He'd been a child, ignorant of all that was to come; and though he was now only 17, his body seemed to have lived a hundred lifetimes, his flesh and bones carrying the weight and scars of someone else's war.

He settled himself into a patch of tall grass, the soft color of hay. Leaning back on his elbows, he stretched his legs out in front of him, letting himself unfurl in the weak sunlight, the gentle sway of the grass brushing softly against his jeans. Memories burst as sea mist along the craggy rocks, coating his skin, his lips, his tongue with sweet bitterness.

"What are you doing?"

Harry jolted, tilting his head up to find Malfoy staring down at him. "What does it look like?"

"Like you're trying to catch a tan."

Harry laughed, the sound quick and loud before he stoppered it in his throat. "Go back inside, Malfoy," he said, turning his attention back to the water.

Malfoy very unsteadily lowered himself into the grass, the wind catching in his curls and sending them skating around his head. "If you get to lie out in the sun, then so do I."

"Very well, Your Majesty."

"Only the house-elves call me that, Potter."

Harry shot him a scathing look, and Malfoy smirked. "You're foul, you know that?"

"Well, when you keep reminding me," Malfoy said loftily, tilting his face up toward the sun and closing his eyes, "how could I not?"

They sat in silence for a long while, the ocean hurling itself against the miniscule island, the shack groaning in the breeze. If Harry closed his eyes, he could almost pretend he was alone, or at least not with Malfoy in the middle of the ocean, in the middle of a war. A sense of calm, so fragile and thin, Harry knew it could shatter with the slightest gust of wind, had enveloped him in the sea air, as if this island existed outside of time. But that feeling wouldn't last; it never could.

"We'll need to move on tomorrow," he said, his eyes fixed on the sliver of mainland across the channel. "I'll Apparate you to a wizarding village, then we can part ways."

Harry sensed Malfoy's silver eyes searing holes through the side of his head, but he didn't meet his gaze. "You want to abandon me without my wand in some dodgy town?"

"What's the alternative, Malfoy?" Harry asked impatiently. "You come with me while I try to track down Ron and Hermione?"

"The alternative is you give me my bleeding wand back and sod off!" he shouted, pink flushing though his pale cheeks, his left hand curling into a fist and fingers twitching, as if he were trying to tug on a sleeve that wasn't there.

Harry laughed, the taste more bitter than it was before. "When will you get it through that thick skull of yours: I am never giving this wand back." He held it up for emphasis, shaking it in front of Malfoy's face. "You can take my offer, or I can leave you here for the seagulls."

"Go to hell, Potter," Malfoy spat back, climbing with great effort to his feet and storming back toward the shack. He slammed the door behind him, and the structure shook as if it might clatter to the ground in a pile of wooden splinters.

Harry exhaled heavily, lying back and staring up at the hazy sky. He tried to think of places he could hide after he'd rid himself of Malfoy, where he could come up with a proper plan, but his anger was buzzing too fiercely in his veins. The breezy quiet and his own irritation gave space for his scar to resume its fierce aching, and when he could no longer tolerate the pain, he pushed himself up and stomped moodily back to the shack.