By The Light Of A Dying Flame ~ Drarry Fanfic

Chapter 9: Draco

They landed on another residential street, although this one clearly belonged to Muggles—the lane was brighter, streetlamps casting warm light onto the sidewalks and reflecting off of cars parked in driveways. The houses were well lit, curtains flung open and welcome toward the night, as if a war weren't waging just outside; as if Draco's chest weren't collapsing in on itself as Travers' slimy words reverberated through his skull. For now, for now, for now.

Potter looked up and down the street, a deer caught in the sight of an arrow, before he grabbed Draco's arm and yanked him toward one of the houses across from them, their footsteps too loud against the concrete. Upon reaching the front stoop, Potter released Draco and began reciting the protection spells, his whispers rushed and stumbling. Draco watched dumbly, his fingers reaching toward his bare left arm, scraping raw skin. When Potter finished, he unlocked the door with his wand and pulled Draco inside. After reciting a few more protection spells, he marched to the window and slammed closed the curtains, plunging them into darkness.

He stood frozen in the shadows, his back toward Draco, silence yawning between them. "I'm not entirely sure what the delay is on the tracking spell they've placed on you," he said, his voice large in the empty house, as he half turned toward Draco. "In any case, we should keep watch for a while."

Draco gazed blankly at the curtains before blinking owlishly at Potter, fingers still twitching at his side. "What—the hell just happened?" His legs had gone numb, and he leaned against the wall to support himself.

"I just saved your life," Potter said flatly. "Again."

"Yes, but—" Draco began, the hairs on his arms standing on end in the stale, chilly air of the house, "but, why ?"

Potter sighed a sustained, sharp exhale, taking a heavy seat on the couch in the living room. He scrubbed his hands down his face, knocking his glasses askew. When he didn't move to fix them, Draco's fingers itched to do it himself. "If I knew, I'd tell you."

Draco stared at Potter, his mind seeming to fracture. He struggled for some semblance of clarity, but could only come up with Travers' warning still clanging around his head, with the image of his parents flashing against his eyelids. He wouldn't think of his mother, not now, not when she could very well be dead because of him—

"Stop," Potter said, and Draco's eyes focused on his shadowy face. He was watching Draco carefully, green eyes sharp in the dim room. "I can see you spiraling."

Tearing his gaze away from Potter, Draco pushed himself off the wall and rubbed at his chest, which had begun to throb. He looked around the room, beginning to process his surroundings as he shoved thoughts of his parents down with violent force. He considered the décor—rather ugly, with bright pastels and mismatched patterns, a collection of various trinkets strewn across shelves and tabletops. It reminded him of the frilly office of Dolores Umbridge, with her ridiculous kittens and her girlish bows. He tried to imagine how Umbridge would feel about him comparing her taste to that of Muggles, and despite the horrible situation he'd gotten himself into, the thought nearly made him laugh. "Where are we?"

"A Muggle neighborhood outside of London," Potter replied, leaning back against the couch cushions. "The house belongs to friends of my aunt and uncle. They always go on holiday this time of year."

"And if they'd been here when we arrived?"

Potter shrugged, passing the hawthorn wand back and forth between his nervous hands. "Stunned them and shoved them in a closet?"

Now, Draco did laugh, a strangled guffaw that ripped itself from his throat. Potter's eyebrows rose, his mouth twitching into not quite a smile. Draco brought his hands up to his face and rubbed his eyes. His heart was still beating erratically, his limbs shaking in a subtle, sustained vibration like a tuning fork. He had spent years surrounded by Death Eaters, by Dark magic and torture—but never had the ugliness touched him like this, like the threat of a steel blade against his throat. It was his fault, he knew, that his family had fallen so far out of the graces of the Dark Lord, that they may pay for his countless mistakes with their lives.

"Are you alright?" Potter asked quietly, his voice cutting through the panic welling in Draco's lungs like pitch-black seawater.

"Fine," Draco replied gruffly, refusing to meet Potter's green gaze.

"I'm sorry about your family."

The words were so plain, so conspicuously absent of any vitriol, that Draco genuinely believed him. He couldn't remember the last time someone had said something so earnestly kind to him, apart from perhaps his mother; he certainly couldn't remember a time when Potter had been kind to him. He was trying to trace backwards to the moment when the world had turned upside down on its head, but was coming up empty.

He glanced at Potter quickly, who was looking back at him with an inscrutable expression, and suddenly he couldn't take it anymore, standing in this fucking room of Muggle shit, Potter's pity landing on his tongue, tasting of ash. "I'm—" he said, turning away, towards the stairs, "I think I need to lie down."

He didn't wait for Potter to respond before climbing the stairs, upwards into deeper darkness. The air was static and thick with dust, making Draco shiver. He'd spent his childhood in a house filled with ghosts, but something about the empty Muggle house was far creepier than reanimated dead people. Opening the first door at the top of the staircase, he found a small bedroom, filled with more pointless statuettes and framed photos of Muggles, their stillness eerie in the shadows. He collapsed onto the bed, not even bothering to take off his shoes, staring at the slats of light shining through the blinds onto the ceiling. His wound itched terribly, and he knew he needed to change his bandages, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

It took a long time for sleep to finally drag him under, Travers' laugh and Potter's worried gaze chasing him all the way down.