By The Light Of A Dying Flame ~ Drarry Fanfic

Chapter 17: Draco

Draco could hear his own heartbeat thudding in his ears like the banging of a gong; everything else was a vacuum of sound and sensation, his vision blurring as if he stood at the end of a very long tunnel. He could sense Potter beside him, could hear his voice, but it was muffled, as if he stood on the other side of a glass wall. He stumbled, the ground rising to meet him as he backed up the hill toward the cottage. The impact rattled through him, but he hardly noticed, only laid in the grass and waited for his lungs to inflate.

He didn't know how long he'd been staring up at the night sky before Potter's face appeared in his line of vision, his head a lonely planet amongst the stars. Without speaking, he reached out his hand and helped pull Draco to his feet, guiding him back toward the cottage, his palm hovering just shy of Draco's lower back. He left him standing in the entryway as he closed the door and walked to the kitchen, placing the tea kettle on the stove and using the wand to light a fire beneath it.

"He's dead," Draco found himself saying, staring at the grandfather clock on the opposite wall as it ticked away the hour.

Potter didn't say anything, his back still to Draco, busying himself with pulling out two mugs and tea bags. The sound of him shuffling, the tapping against the counter, the gurgle of water being poured beat like a metronome, counting down the dwindling of Draco's calm. The taste of iron filled his mouth, surging through his body and coating his vision with flashes of red like fireworks. "FUCK!" he yelled, and Potter jumped, finally turning to face Draco, the wand pointing toward him. Draco barely noticed; he rushed forward and shoved one of the armchairs, before picking up the abandoned bottle of Firewhiskey and smashing it on the floor. Glass pierced through his socks as he trod over the shards, but he ignored the bites of pain, hurling his mug from earlier against the wall, pieces of white ceramic bouncing off the stones.

Potter watched silently as Draco stormed around the cottage, shoving furniture and throwing objects with all his strength. Only when Draco pulled back his arm and sent his fist flying through the face of the grandfather clock did Potter intervene, rushing over to tug on Draco's arm, his face neutral even as Draco turned his feral snarl toward him, a growl trapped in his throat and teeth bared. Potter pulled him toward one of the armchairs and pushed him down, rolling up his sleeve to get a better look at his hand with the crisp efficiency of a healer.

On his knees next to the armchair, he Accio'd the first aid kit he'd brought from the Muggle house, using a strange looking silver instrument to pluck out pieces of glass from Draco's knuckles before Scourgifying away the blood. He smeared some of the same gunk he'd used on Draco's chest across the back of his hand and fingers before wrapping them gently in a bandage. "I've been banged up enough times to know the basics of first aid," he said quietly, his brow furrowed slightly in concentration as he crouched by Draco's legs, lifting one of his feet and pulling off his sock, waving his wand to eliminate the glass shards that tumbled to the floor. He looked up at Draco from beneath his glasses and added, "But that was before I knew how to use magic."

Draco looked down at him, the words settling on the surface of his mind like leaves falling into a pond, the accompanying ripples faint and short-lived. He said nothing in response, only watched as Potter inspected his feet for cuts from the glass. "I understand," he said once he'd finished, leaning back to sit on the edge of the hearth. His green eyes examined Draco's face, and Draco found no pity reflected back at him—only the weathered hardness of someone who knew grief by name. "When Bellatrix killed Sirius, I tried to Crucio her," he said, his voice catching only briefly on the name of his godfather, "So I understand the need to destroy something, before you destroy yourself."

"Serves her right," Draco found himself saying, the words flat and empty despite their harshness. "She's done it enough times to me."

Potter regarded him across the brief space. "She's pretty much a cunt, isn't she?"

Without warning, a huff of air escaped Draco, the sound almost a laugh. "She is," he agreed.

Potter stood and collected the mugs from the counter, bringing them over and handing one to Draco before sitting back down on the hearth. He sipped idly, watching Draco carefully over the lip of the mug.

Heat leached into the palm of Draco's good hand, but he made no move to drink the tea. His mind was like a raging ocean in the throes of a storm, flashes of thoughts and emotions surging up then crashing down, slipping away from him before he could name them—the steel of regret, the flush of anger, and somewhere at the base of his soul, the cool caress of relief. Each time he blinked, he saw his father's face crowned by Draco's own pale hair, his same silver eyes glaring back at him with contempt. When he thought of his mother, of her grief, the sudden stabbing sense of panic nearly sent him over the edge. A sob broke through his chest, erupting from his throat as a strangled whimper, and he slapped his bandaged hand over his mouth.

Potter's eyebrows rose in alarm, and he sat down his mug; but it was clear he didn't know what to do as Draco tried to fight back his tears. Draco was painfully aware this was the second time Potter had seen him cry, although the first had led to a bloody duel, and now Potter was crouched at his feet and offering him tea. Potter looked away, his mouth twisting in a way Draco could not define, his hands curled into fists in his lap.

"My mother," Draco managed to choke out, and he closed his eyes at the desperation lacing his voice. Truly, what he wanted was to say nothing at all, but he found the tempest surging closer and closer to the surface, words whipping themselves into a frenzy for release.

Potter didn't answer for a long moment. "You think she's dead?" he finally asked, tone timid, almost as if he didn't want to know the answer.

Draco squeezed his eyes so tightly, he saw white stars against his eyelids. "I don't know," he whispered.

Silence followed, creeping past Draco with slithering, sickening slipperiness. Nausea coiled through his stomach. When he opened his eyes again, Potter's face was blurry behind a film of tears, but he could finally see pity etched in the line of his brow, the curve of his mouth—and Draco was sick over the side of the armchair.