By The Light Of A Dying Flame ~ Drarry Fanfic

Chapter 12: Harry

Harry had no trouble falling asleep on the couch earlier, but now, as he lay on a real bed in a house that wasn't falling down around him, he couldn't shut his mind up enough to sleep. His scar prickled an irritating staccato against his skull, and he was wary of the possibility of slipping into Voldemort's head as soon as he closed his eyes. He stared at the ceiling, drumming his stomach with his fingers. The hawthorn wand sat on the nightstand beside him, and he had told Malfoy it was fine for both of them to sleep. Malfoy had wasted no time in retreating to the bedroom by the stairs, the door shutting with a bit too much force. They had spoken very little since Harry had finished bandaging his wound, and that was certainly fine by him—Malfoy was just shy of pleasant even in his best moments.

He recalled the image of Malfoy's scars, carved into the flesh over his sternum by Harry's own hand. Malfoy had caused him pain in a myriad ways throughout their time together at Hogwarts, but the scars snagged at Harry's mind in a manner he couldn't explain. What was it about that bloody duel in the boy's bathroom that stuck to his conscience like cobwebs?

Groaning, Harry turned on his side and squeezed his eyes shut. He thought again, as he always did in these quiet moments, of Ron and Hermione—wondering where they were, if they had found any Horcruxes, if they thought he was dead. They had destroyed the locket, but that still left three more Horcruxes to find; and they no longer had the Sword of Gryffindor. Frustration, bright and hot, flooded his veins at how ill prepared he was for this journey, at how secretive Dumbledore had been for so long, until it was too late. Dumbledore was dead, and Harry had plummeted with him, into a void outside of time. He felt as if he had been wandering around in complete darkness, shuffling closer and closer to the edge of a cliff, no light to guide him away from his own doom.

"Shut up," he grumbled to himself, pushing his fists against his eye sockets until he saw pricks of light, like the sudden appearance of a Patronus.

Almost as if he had conjured it in front of him, the thought of the glowing doe in the woods appeared in his mind, her silvery imprint leading him to the Sword. The Patronus sent a faint echo of warmth through his limbs, and he sat up like a door slamming closed on its hinges. He glanced at the hawthorn wand, the idea barely formed in his head as he jumped to his feet.

Harry rushed from the room, throwing open the door across the hall before striding to the end of the bed. Malfoy was asleep, arm thrown above his head and pink mouth slightly ajar. The door banged into the wall, and he scrambled upward at the noise, tugging the blankets toward his bare shoulders. "Fuck, Potter," he hissed, his blonde hair sticking up behind his head like the downy feathers of a chick. "Can't you knock?"

"I need you to cast a Patronus," Harry said, his voice rushed and excited as if he were Hermione explaining a particularly complicated spell. He thrust out the hawthorn wand toward Malfoy, who stared at it, his gray eyes blinking.

"What?"

"I need you to cast a Patronus," Harry repeated, slower this time, the wand still suspended between them.

Malfoy dropped the blankets, his chest pale, the Dark Mark a vivid streak against his skin. "I know you're more than capable of doing it yourself," he said, his eyes flicking between the wand and Harry's face.

"I have to get a message to Ron and Hermione," Harry explained, "and my Patronus is too recognizable, especially if it's intercepted with a message to them."

Malfoy regarded Harry in the dimness, his silver eyes strangely bright, his head tilted. Harry held his stare, widening his own eyes and shaking the wand emphatically. Malfoy glanced again at the wand before his lip curled. "No," he said flatly.

Harry's eyebrows met. "No?"

"You've got my wand," he said, shrugging his shoulders, "Do it yourself."

Harry narrowed his eyes at him, and Malfoy looked away, toward the window. "You don't know how, do you?" Harry guessed.

Malfoy straightened, his familiar arrogance melting across his features like a candle tipped over, wax spilling across a desk. "Sod off, Potter."

"That's not a denial."

"I don't have to explain myself to you," Malfoy snapped, tossing the blankets off and sliding from the bed. He moved past Harry towards the door, and Harry followed, downstairs and into the kitchen. Malfoy began throwing open cabinets before slamming each closed with greater irritation.

"What are you doing?"

"Looking for some fucking alcohol in this doily-drenched cesspit." Malfoy stomped into the dining room, disappearing around the corner. Harry could hear him ransacking the cupboards before an emphatic "Finally" preceded his reappearance, a bottle of gin clutched against his chest. He slammed the bottle on the kitchen island, unscrewing the top and pouring a generous amount into a teacup. Harry watched silently while Malfoy threw back the gin, his throat moving fluidly as he drained the cup and dropped it back on the counter. He wiped his long-fingered hand across his mouth before eyeing Harry over the counter, raising one pale eyebrow. "I'm not having this conversation sober."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Always with the theatrics," he muttered, before holding out his hand. "Pass it here, then."

Malfoy held the bottle out to him, and he took it gingerly, sniffing lightly at the lip. He wrinkled his nose, but took a long pull of the clear liquid despite the strong scent, shuddering at the sharp, flowery taste. The gin burnt a line down his throat, and when he looked back up at Malfoy, the image of him wavered behind tears. "That's awful."

"It's certainly not Butterbeer," Malfoy said mockingly, sneer scrawling across the bottom half of his face.

Harry glared at him, bringing the bottle back to his lips and taking another large sip, schooling his features into neutrality before he set the bottle back on the kitchen island and pushed it towards Malfoy. "So," he said, clearing his throat, "are you going to be honest now?"

Malfoy narrowed his silver eyes, pouring himself more gin into the teacup. He took a careful sip before he said with an exaggerated sigh, "I've never been able to produce a Patronus."

"It's pretty advanced magic," Harry offered, rapping his knuckles against the counter top. "I only learned out of absolute necessity."

"We're all aware of the fits you had third year, Potter," Malfoy said, draining the rest of the gin, his long finger tapping against the side of the cup; with the movement, Harry noticed how ragged the nail was, the cuticle torn and red. "Not something I'd brag about."

Harry flicked his tongue across his teeth, and he glared at Malfoy, something sharp rising in his throat. But he needed Malfoy, and taking the bait of his cruelty would only push him deeper into stubbornness. "Regardless of why I learned," he said stiffly, "the fact remains that I know how—and I can teach you. I did it for Dumbledore's Army."

"What's in it for me?"

Already expecting Malfoy to require an incentive—because what Slytherin would do something for free—Harry shrugged mildly and replied, "I'll give your wand back."

Malfoy's eyebrows shot up. "Really?"

"Really."

"I don't believe you."

Harry pulled the hawthorn wand from his pocket, running his thumb over the smooth wood. "You'll need it to learn the spell," he said, meeting Malfoy's silvery eyes, lifting his own eyebrows. "How could I possibly take it back from you?"

Malfoy raised his chin, appraising Harry across the counter, his moonlight irises darting to the wand in the other boy's hand. "Alright, Potter," he said, lifting the bottle of gin to his mouth for one last pull, "Show me how it's done."