By The Light Of A Dying Flame ~ Drarry Fanfic

Chapter 16: Harry

The night had grown deeper, the moon rising higher in the sky, her face dipped in silver and glimmering down on Harry and Malfoy through the open shutters as they sat in the armchairs by the darkening fireplace. They had eaten enough of the scraps Harry had managed to nick from the wizard village nearby to satiate themselves, the rest stored in the canvas bag on the kitchen counter. Although Harry should have grown tired by now, his stomach fuller than it had been in a while and the beds upstairs calling to him like a siren song, he found that adrenaline was still lingering in his veins like a stubborn poison. When he'd arrived back at the cottage to find the door thrown open and Malfoy gone, he felt sure that the Slytherin had summoned Death Eaters, who were lying in wait for Harry to return. The thought of Malfoy's betrayal had stung almost as painfully as did the concern for Harry's own life. Stupid, he was so fucking stupid to believe Malfoy could be trusted, that he may have changed enough not to sell Harry out the first chance he got.

But.

Another part of Harry—a miniscule, faint part of him that was buried beneath years of resentment and mistrust—had spasmed in fear that he knew had nothing to do with Death Eaters or Voldemort or the promise of death on the horizon like the sunrise. That piece of his soul had cried out not for his own life, but for Malfoy's; and that was not something he cared to examine further.

Which he knew his brain would force him to do if he tried to sleep now, in the quiet stillness of midnight; so instead, he sat in one of the armchairs by the fire, sipping from a bottle of Firewhiskey he'd found in one of the cupboards. To his surprise, Malfoy had not gone to bed either, and was curled up on the other armchair, his long legs tucked under him so he looked like a little kid, his robes hiding everything but his socked feet. He was staring at the fire as if he were waiting for someone's face to appear in the ashes, his hands cupped around a teacup filled with Firewhiskey, its amber surface sending sparks into the cool air. He glanced up, and when his silver eyes met green, Harry looked away, darting his own eyes to the bottle in his hand. He took a deep pull, the liquid burning a path down his throat and through his head.

"What do you think is happening at Hogwarts?"

The question cut through the fog of alcohol to land in Harry's lap. He met Malfoy's gaze, his face impassive—curious, even—and swallowed down whatever sarcastic remark that had formed in his mouth. "Not sure," he said, but he thought of the Marauder's Map tucked into the moleskine bag in the backpack on the bed upstairs, the lines he traced so often of Ginny's footsteps.

"Bet Snape canceled Quidditch."

Harry snorted, the Firewhiskey sloshing in the bottle. "I bet you're right."

"S'fine by me," Malfoy added, taking a sip from his cup. "Slytherins didn't stand a chance without me."

Harry rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "I've beat you to the Snitch every match we've played, Malfoy."

Malfoy waved his hand dismissively, although he didn't argue. Harry peered at the Slytherin over the lip of the bottle, Malfoy's smug smile unfurling across his face as he did. "Your team would be fine without you, " he said around his smirk, "Don't have to worry about you nearly dying every bloody match."

"I still managed to catch the Snitch," Harry argued defensively, waving the bottle around emphatically; the amber liquid splashed dangerously close to the opening.

Malfoy rolled his eyes, taking another delicate sip of the Firewhiskey in his own teacup. His voice crackled when he said, "They've got girl Weasley to hold them up."

Harry raised his eyebrows at the obvious compliment towards Ginny's Quidditch skills. "She's better than both of us by Galleons," he agreed, still studying Malfoy out of the corner of his eye.