By The Light Of A Dying Flame ~ Drarry Fanfic

Chapter 23: Draco

Draco felt himself sliding back into old habits.

Something about the past few weeks with Potter had shattered him, exposing his jagged edges, the molten core at his center that often burned too hot even for him. But now he was trying to convince himself not to pick up the pieces Granger and Weasley would surely recognize. He didn't want them to look at him like they always had at Hogwarts, like he was some spoiled, prejudiced prick.

Like he was a Death Eater.

But Weasley's constant glaring and muttering under his breath anytime Draco walked by, and Granger's anxious gaze lingering on his back, were grating his nerves. He wasn't sure what he'd expected—perhaps part of him had hoped Potter's word would have been enough to change their minds about him.

That part of him could choke and die for all its stupidity.

At least Fleur seemed delighted by his presence. They'd spent the afternoon and much of the evening chatting in French, Draco helping her cook the cassoulet. He'd told her his grandparents had wanted him to attend Beauxbatons, but his father would never have allowed it. She told him of her childhood in Bordeaux and her little sister Gabrielle. Occasionally, he would glance over at Potter to find him studying Draco. But Draco would never let his gaze linger too long, not when Granger or Weasley would catch him staring and drag Potter back into their hushed conversation, shooting daggers at Draco for good measure.

He'd known this would happen, and yet it still stung. When had he gotten so bloody soft?

Later in the evening, Draco sat in the drawing room on the couch while Fleur knit a pair of tiny booties for someone or other's newborn, Bill staring at her like she'd hung the goddamn moon. Potter suddenly rounded the corner, green gaze flashing Draco's direction before he made his way upstairs. Draco trailed him with his silver eyes, even when Weasley and Granger followed shortly after, Weasley's hand tightening against Granger's back as he scowled at Draco. It took everything in him not to stick out his tongue.

Draco wasn't sure where he was supposed to spend the night, and when he'd asked Fleur, she'd gestured upstairs and said, "Any bedroom that's open, mon chou. We are like a boarding 'ouse these days." He sighed, pushing himself up from the couch and padding to the bottom of the stairs. Several sconces on the wall washed the steps in warm light, and he could hear the trio moving around, their voices muffled and footsteps reverberating through the ceiling.

He made his way to the second floor, peering around the corner to the hallway. Weasley was exiting what appeared to be a bathroom; he froze when he noticed Draco standing there, and opened his mouth as if to say something, but shut it just as quickly. He shot him a scathing look before going into one of the rooms, Granger's soft voice leaking through the gap before the door closed. Draco shuffled down the hallway, listening at each of the doorways and glancing underneath for signs of light. At the end of the hall, he paused at the last door, his hand pressed against the white wood. He could hear Potter muttering, the creaking of a shifting bed frame. When he opened the door, his eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness, and he found Potter lying in the bed, fully clothed and on top of the covers, his glasses tossed haphazardly beside him. Next to the bed, the window looked out onto the craggy cliffs and the dark stretch of ocean. The sky was strangely starless, only an inky well a few shades lighter than the water below.

Draco considered backing out of the room and finding an empty one. Potter was already pulling away from him, like an untethered ship drawn out with the tide. Surely, there was some sense of self-preservation left in this thick, blonde skull of his, and surely that included leaving this room with Potter's soft murmurs and his rosy cheeks and his black spill of hair that made Draco want to tangle his fingers through it and yank. But his body had different plans: his hand shut the door and his feet walked him right up to the edge of the bed, where he picked up Potter's glasses and placed them carefully on the nightstand. He stood there for a long while, watching Potter as he slept; it was a restless, anxious sort of sleep, all darting eyelids and lips shaping quiet, indistinguishable words. Almost as if he were watching someone else make this stupid, treacherous decision, Draco leaned over the bed and slowly grazed the back of his fingers across Potter's forehead.