The Silent World Within You

Chapter 1: Summer PT3

Supper at Hogwarts is a quiet affair.

Harry sits beside McGonagall, pressing the tines of his fork into his sausage. He's been at the castle for only an hour--long enough to settle his bags in the room near the staff quarters that the Headmistress has prepared for him. He'd expected Gryffindor Tower, but she'd explained that she thought it best he be near the other summer staff members before term started, particularly with certain parts of the castle still needing repair.There's only a handful of them, he's been told. McGonagall, and Filch, and Hagrid, and Flitwick, and Pince mostly, with Firenze helping with the forest beasts, and Binns drifting about with the other ghosts. Pomfrey's on call in Cornwall, McGonagall says, in case anyone falls ill or is hurt, but other than that she only pops in once a week to check the infirmary stores and have tea with Pince in the library.

And then, of course, there's Draco Malfoy."Mr Malfoy has been assigned two years of service at Hogwarts under the terms of his Community Order." McGonagall had looked at Harry, mouth stern and tight, as the former Hogwarts headmasters watched in amusement from their portraits. "I am quite aware of your mutual disregard, and I have made it clear to him as well that I expect extraordinary behaviour from the both of you. Which means no hexes, jinxes, or fisticuffs. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

Harry'd had no choice but to nod.

Malfoy isn't at supper. Hagrid's murmured something to McGonagall about Firenze setting the lad off. Harry's surprised that Hagrid's defending Malfoy; Hagrid's dislike of the prat wasn't well-hidden during school. McGongall looks disappointed, but she just nods and reaches for her pumpkin juice.

When she turns away to speak to Professor Sprout about the repairs still needed on the greenhouses, Harry looks at Hagrid and whispers, "Malfoy?"Hagrid just shrugs. "He's not so bad these days," he says under his breath. "A bit stroppy at times, but the Thestrals like him well enough, and he seems to not mind 'em so much himself."Harry scowls. "No one likes Malfoy."

"I do," Hagrid says simply. "Mostly. He's changed some. Not much, mind, but enough so yeh don't want to string him up by his toenails." He stops and ponders. "Well. Not always."Harry rolls his eyes. "Then again, you're soft on dangerous creatures.""Always have been," Hagrid says with a chuckle. He sops his bread in his soup. "Be gentle with 'em and they'll turn out well enough. Works a charm with people, too." He leans forward, his beard trailing in his bowl. "Best keep that in mind. the Headmistress don't want yeh and young Draco brawlin' 'round the castle like yer wont to do."

Harry sighs. He doesn't think he's the energy to tussle with Malfoy, even if he wants to. It doesn't matter. Nothing much does, these days.

Supper is interminable. The Hall is too empty. Too cold. All Harry can remember as he looks around are the screams from the battle. The smoke from the fires. The flash of curses and hexes as they ricocheted off stone walls. The bodies lying stretched out on the floor in the entrance hall, so damned many of them lined up, waiting for the Healers to collect them.And Harry himself, standing in the middle of the Great Hall, facing down the man who had already killed him.

He drops his fork against his plate. Its sharp clatter echoes in the quiet hall. He can barely breathe.

McGonagall turns to him. "Harry," she says, but he's already pushed his chair back."I'm sorry." Harry drops his napkin on the table. "I just need some air."No one follows him. He's grateful, though he's certain he sees McGonagall stop Hagrid with a hand on his arm. He runs down the entrance hall, the faint memory of shouts echoing in his ears. It's not the first time he's been in Hogwarts since the battle. There'd been a memorial held in the Great Hall just two weeks afterwards. He'd been numb then, sedated by the potions stabilising his magic and by the overwhelming grief at all the deaths he'd seen. For the rest of May he'd gone from funeral to funeral, sometimes several in a day, always pale and sober in his best black robes.

He'd had to. No one had asked it of him or expected it even. Ginny had shouted at him, told him that he wasn't responsible for them all, that he was tormenting himself. He'd just pulled on his dress robe and Floo'd to the next funeral. He hadn't even known whose it was.

The air is cool on his cheeks when he pushes the front door open. It's as heavy as he remembers it, and the newly set wards crackle across his palm, stinging slightly. They'll settle into the wood in a week or two, leaving behind a pleasantly warm glow when the students touch the door.Harry stops on the steps, looking out over the Hogwarts grounds. The lawn slopes down to Hagrid's hut and the paddocks beyond. Malfoy's domain now, although McGonagall had told Harry he had a room in the castle with the staff. Ponce, Harry thinks. He's probably hidden away, like a coward, forcing the house-elves to wait on him hand and foot.

Perhaps he should have realised it would have been harder than he expected to come back. Hermione had tried to warn him last night, but Harry'd waved her off. Hogwarts was home, after all. He just hadn't thought there'd still be ghosts lingering.

The sun barely brushes the tops of the mountains. It's summer, and it won't set until ten, at least, but the light is golden warm and the shadows are long. Harry finds himself at the Quidditch pitch, one of the few places that wasn't harmed in the battle.

Even Death Eaters respect some traditions.

Harry doesn't see him until it's too late. Malfoy's on a broom, circling the pitch lazily, and Harry stops, his hands in his robe pockets. Malfoy stills, his hands tight on his broomstick. Harry's surprised by him--by his bare chest and his faintly golden skin, by the hint of muscles in broad shoulders and graceful arms, by his hair, once silver-gilt and now nearly bleached white by the sun. There's a streak of dirt on Malfoy's cheek, and his once immaculate hair is sweaty and unkempt.

"Potty Potter," Malfoy says, and the sneer is fainter than it was once, but it's still there. Harry's filled with relief. At least something hasn't changed. "McG told me we'd be cursed with your presence this summer."

Harry shrugs. "Professor McGonagall--" He emphasises her full name, and Malfoy snorts. "--needed some help with the wards."

"Is that what she told you?" Malfoy sits up on his broom, and Harry can't tear his eyes away from Malfoy's muscular torso. He can see the pale pink scar lines criss-crossing his skin. Sectumsempra, he thinks with a twinge of guilt. Snape's dittany hadn't worked. "I heard everyone was oh-so-worried that you might off yourself because the Weaselette tossed you over."

"Fuck off, Malfoy." Harry glares up at him.

Malfoy's boots are hooked on the broom stirrups. He's wearing corduroys--corduroys, for Christ's sake--and Harry hates how well they look on his lithe frame. He wonders what Malfoy would say if he knew that Harry'd been the one to leave Ginny, once he'd realised that when push came to shove, he really could care less about fucking her. Ginny'd blamed it on the potions, on Harry's depression, on anything but the actual truth. It wasn't that they hadn't tried. God knows he'd come from her hands and her mouth and from rutting against her on the Weasley's sofa one silent afternoon at the Burrow. But the night he'd slipped into her bedroom, the night he'd first touched her bare skin, felt the slickness of her thighs as she'd wrapped them around his hips, her breath catching when his cock had pressed inside her...well. It hadn't been anything like what Ron described with Hermione.

They'd laid beside each other less than five minutes later, staring up at the ceiling, then Ginny had slipped silently out of the bed, reaching for her dressing gown. Harry'd listened to the soft pad of her feet across the creaking floorboards, followed by the click of the bathroom door, before he'd sat up and grabbed his pyjama bottoms from the rug. He was a coward, he knew, but he couldn't be there when she returned.

He hadn't expected Hermione to be in Ron's room, though he should have. He'd known Ron had been sneaking into her parents' house nearly every night. Still, he stood transfixed, his hand on the doorknob as he watched them together, his eyes caught by the sight of Ron's flexing arse, the long sweep of his freckled back, the groan he made as he arched over her writhing body.Harry supposes he should have known he was queer when he spent months alone with Hermione in the Forest of Dean and hadn't once wanted to crawl into her bed, not even after the night he'd seen her bathing, her breasts full and white in the moonlight. He realised it that night, standing in the doorway, his cock harder than it'd been when Ginny'd touched him.And now the sight of Malfoy's bare chest was twisting his stomach into knots. It was all he could do not to growl put on a damn shirt to the wanker, and wouldn't that give Malfoy something to lord over him for the rest of the year.

Malfoy just watches him, grey eyes cool and calculating. He tucks a lock of pale hair behind one ear. "Strike a nerve, have I?" he asks calmly. "You'd be surprised at what the staff talk about over dinner. The Minister's even concerned now. Wouldn't do to have the War Hero suicidal, would it?" His lip curls. "The rest of us on the other hand..."

"I'll gladly hold the knife for you," Harry says bitterly, and he shocks himself with the statement. He flushes, and opens his mouth to apologise, but Malfoy just laughs. The clear peal of amusement surprises Harry.

"I'm sure you would." Malfoy lets his broom drift lower. "But I'm guessing Old McGonagall forced the same promise of good behaviour out of you that she did me." He eyes Harry for a long moment, then tugs his broomstick up enough to send himself circling around Harry's head. "Come on Potter, there are ten of us here, including the damned cat," he says. "We can't avoid each other entirely this summer, and I'm not idiot enough to exchange Hogwarts for Azkaban just because I can't stand you." The smooth black hilt of a wand sticks out of his leather belt. Harry knows it's not Malfoy's. The Ministry hasn't let anyone on Community Order keep their wand. Instead they've each been issued a Ministry wand, calibrated to allow them to do just enough magic for personal care and to suit the requirements of their jobs. "Feel like flying?""What?" Harry blinks.

Malfoy rolls his eyes. "Get a broom from the shed, you imbecile." He pulls a Snitch from his pocket and lets it hover beside him. "I'm bored and irritated--always a deadly combination, my mother claims--and you're here bothering me. We might as well take our misery out on each other in a McGonagall-approved fashion, and the old bat can't object to my kicking your arse in a bit of one-on-one."

Harry has to admit he has a point. "Cheat, and I'll deck you anyway."Malfoy lifts one shoulder. Harry has no damned idea how he can manage to look completely composed half-naked. "You're too pathetic to cheat against."

The broom shed's still unlocked. It smells of dust and lemon oil broom polish. Harry wishes he had his Firebolt still, but it's been destroyed since the battle over Little Whinging. His throat tightens as he reaches for a battered Nimbus. He still misses Hedwig, finds himself looking for her when he forgets--and then he remembers.

Malfoy's waiting for him over the pitch. Harry drops his robe beside Malfoy's abandoned shirt and flies up to meet him. It's been too long since he's been on a broom. The handle is rough against his palms, and he takes a moment to resettle himself on the cushioning charm. Malfoy watches him, a faint smile on his face. It doesn't reach his eyes.

"Problems?"

"In your dreams." Harry hooks his trainers over the stirrups. A breeze ripples the sleeves of his brown t-shirt. "No charms on the Snitch?"

It hums beside Malfoy. "Only the regulation ones," he says, and he catches it between two fingers. Harry believes him. He wonders if that makes him a fool.They face off. Malfoy tosses the Snitch in the air, and it darts to the side, shining in the sun. They hesitate, both of them studying each other for a moment, and then with a whoop, Malfoy wheels his broom to the side, dashing after the Snitch.Harry races behind, the wind in his hair, the sun on his back.

He feels alive.

***