By The Light Of A Dying Flame ~ Drarry Fanfic

Chapter 15: Draco

Draco released another sigh, peering through the shadows at the grandfather clock next to the fireplace. The only light in the cottage came from the lit candelabra on the table and the watery moonlight streaming through the kitchen window.

He was curled in one of the armchairs, the fireplace filled with unlit ashes. Hunger burned through his body like a low grade fever, and he was bored sitting here alone in the semi-darkness. He had tried reading one of the books stacked on the bedside table, but he found he couldn't focus on the words, sparks of an unidentifiable anxiety igniting in his chest, his eyes flicking continuously to the clock instead of staying on the page. He'd spent much of his childhood either alone or surrounded by adults, seeking out ghosts for entertainment, but there were no ghosts here; only silence and his own dreaded thoughts.

When nearly two hours had passed since Potter had left the cottage for the nearby wizard village, Draco couldn't stand the oppressive quiet any longer. He pushed himself from the armchair and stomped to the front door, throwing it open and looking out onto the soft night. The moonlight reflected off the rows of lavender, flushing the air with a purplish haze. He heard the chirp of crickets, a breeze cool on the skin of his face. With the dark imprint of the hills along the horizon, Draco felt startlingly alone, as if he were the only person on earth.

He descended the front steps, his footfalls loud in the quiet night as they crunched along the gravel path. He made his way to the border of the enchantments he'd cast, wary of drawing too close in case he accidentally stepped over the line. In any direction, he saw no sign of Potter. He circumscribed the cottage, parallel to the enchantments, the grass cool even through his socks. The cottage backed into a wall of trees, and Draco peered through the trunks, wondering if Potter had decided to use them as an additional cover, but he couldn't make out much through the darkness. The thought that perhaps Potter had left him there alone, without his wand—without anything, really—fueled his anxiety further. Potter had no use for Draco; he was dead weight to the other boy, just another person to keep alive, with an invisible lighthouse for the Death Eaters in his head.

Draco dropped to the ground, his legs suddenly unsteady beneath him, and leaned against the cottage wall, resting his forearms on his knees. He tilted his head back to look at the sky, the stars vivid in a well of inky black, the moon a silver coin, and he could not remember the last time he had stared so earnestly upward. Somewhere in the woods, an owl hooted faintly.

Time passed with that syrupy softness of clear night, and Draco was not sure how long he'd been sitting there when he heard what sounded like the front door banging into a wall, the crack echoing like someone had shattered the surface of a mirror. He scrambled to his feet and raced to the front of the cottage, skidding to a stop in the entryway, his stomach flipping at the realization he had no wand, and if Death Eaters had landed on his doorstep, he was well and truly fucked.

He peered into the shadowy cottage, searching for movement, the swish of a cloak, but he only saw a canvas bag that had been tossed to the floor, its contents strewn across the stone. Above him, footsteps pounded along the ceiling, and he heard a muffled curse, before Potter appeared on the staircase, the hawthorn wand in his fist. His hair was sticking up even more than usual, as if he had tugged at it, and his cheeks were flushed. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he looked toward the doorway, his shoulders dropping from a tense, tangled bunch when he saw Draco standing backlit by the moonlight.

Draco made to say something, to ask what the matter was, when Potter stormed across the cottage, wand still out. He grabbed the collar of Draco's robes and yanked him sideways, shoving him into the wall. Draco gasped with the impact, his eyes widening in shock as Potter held him in place with his forearm, the other hand holding Draco's own wand up to his throat. "What the fuck?" he spluttered, trying to push himself off the wall, hands scrabbling for purchase on the stone. "Get off me, Potter!"

"How stupid are you, Malfoy?" Potter snarled, the tip of the wand dangerously close to Draco's jugular. "I come back, and the door's wide open, and you're nowhere to be found! I thought Death Eaters had found us. I thought—" But he cut himself off, his green eyes bright with fury and something that looked alarmingly like fear. He was breathing hard and standing close enough to Draco that he could feel the movement of Potter's chest against his own.

"I was looking for you," Draco said, but his attempt at indignation sounded much more like something he didn't feel comfortable examining too closely. "Did you think I'd left?"

"I don't know what I thought," Potter snapped, but much of the anger had drained from his voice. He was looking up at Draco with an intensity he recognized, something he'd bent toward the Slytherin many times before, in classrooms and hallways and the Great Hall—but it felt different this time, as if the source was not the same righteous contempt Potter usually showed for him, but something else entirely.

Draco counted at least seven heartbeats before Potter finally released his collar and lowered the wand, stepping back, his eyes cast toward the ground. "Don't do that again," he growled, turning away to pick up the bag on the floor, shoving the items that had spilled out back inside. He tossed it onto the kitchen counter, tucking the wand into a pocket of his robe; Draco didn't bother asking for it back, not when Potter's anger was still coiled in his muscles, in the jerkiness of his movements. Draco rubbed his chest, the Splinch wound burning from the pressure of Potter's arm.

His heart was still beating too rapidly, but Draco ignored it, moving slowly toward the counter as if to not frighten a skittish animal. "I was bored," he grumbled, a glimmer of satisfaction curling through him at Potter's eye roll, the tightness of his shoulders loosening just slightly; better he be annoyed than whatever the hell this explosion had been. "And hungry." Draco pulled a baguette from the bag, his long fingers digging into the crispy crust, and the flakiness of freshly baked bread was nearly enough to send him moaning. He tore off a hunk and shoved it into his mouth, crumbs falling to the floor like snow. As he swallowed and ripped off a second piece, he glanced at Potter, who was staring at him with that same eerie sense of intensity. "What?" Draco asked around the baguette.

"Not so civilized now, are you Malfoy?" Potter asked, and when his gaze lingered where the skin of Draco's neck met the top of the Muggle jumper, Draco yanked up his wizard robe and turned away, his chest tingling from his wound—and from where the warmth of Potter's forearm had leaked through the fabric into Draco's skin.