The Silent World Within You

Chapter 1: Summer PT5

Harry finds it odd that the best parts of his days are spent chasing a Snitch with Malfoy, of all people. When he reluctantly admits this to Ron in a firecall one night, his best mate just briefly studies him through the green flames.

"It's the flying, though, isn't it?" Ron brushes his hair out of his eyes. It needs cutting, but Hermione likes it longer, so he'll put off going to the barber again, Harry knows. Sometimes it bothers him how coupled his closest friends are. Since things went pear-shaped with Ginny, he feels awkward around them. They never notice.

 "I mean, you could be playing against anyone. Malfoy just happens to be around. Bad luck, that."Harry chews on his thumbnail. Ron has a point, he supposes. It's Quidditch, not Malfoy. A sense of relief washes through him, and he shrugs, changing the subject to Hermione. Ron's face brightens. Harry steels himself for details he'd rather not know.The warding of the castle is tiring. McGonagall only lets him help in the afternoon for a few hours, sending him off to rest the moment his magic flares, which happens more regularly than either of them would like. Harry's Healer ups the dosage of his potions at the next visit, frowning sternly at him as he tells Harry to keep his interaction with the wards at a minimum. "Your magic's still too unstable for extended heavy spellwork," Guhathakurta says, scribbling notes in Harry's file. "I expect you to tell the Headmistress to limit your work to no more than an hour a day." Harry nods dutifully and does no such thing. Assisting with the wards helps him, makes him feel useful, keeps the ghosts of the battle at bay. If he's working with McGonagall and Flitwick to reinforce the charms, he's not thinking about who died in this corridor or how that room stank of sweat and smoke and blood.

He only sees Malfoy at breakfast and supper. McGonagall tells him Hagrid and Malfoy eat lunch in Hagrid's hut, and Harry thinks it's a fitting punishment for Malfoy to endure Hagrid's cooking for at least one meal a day. His Community Order isn't supposed to be cushy, after all.Harry wonders if Malfoy wakes up at night with the screams of a nightmare still echoing in his ears. Watching him over breakfast some mornings, when Malfoy won't meet anyone's eyes and his mouth is drawn and thin as he clutches a steaming cup of tea tightly in both hands, Harry's certain of it. 

At those moments, Harry almost feels sorry for the git. It fades, though, when he thinks of Teddy and how he'll never know his parents. Or George, having to soldier on without his twin.Flying is happiness. In the fading light of the evening, his broom clenched between his thighs, the faint warmth of the lingering sun on his face, Harry feels normal. It's only when he races for the Snitch, barely missing a mid-air collision with a shouting Malfoy that he realises Ron's wrong. It couldn't be anyone else up here on a broom with him. Not really. Malfoy's always got under his skin in a way no one else has been able to.

It's not just flying that makes Harry feel alive. It's hearing Malfoy tell him imperiously that he's shit at Quidditch; it's the urge to aim his broom so he buzzes past the bastard, nearly knocking him aside. It's beating him to the Snitch half the time and cursing when Malfoy's fingers close around it before his do.Tonight, though, Harry's tired. McGonagall's been in London having meetings with the Ministry regarding the start of term, and Harry's taken advantage of her absence to spend most of the day helping Flitwick with the wards. He doesn't care that Malfoy's flying circles around him; all he wants to do is sit on his broom high above the pitch and watch the hawks swoop down over the treetops below.

"Potter," Malfoy snaps,

 and Harry realises the Snitch has just flitted past him lazily. He turns, too quickly perhaps, and a burst of magic shudders through him, pulling his hands from the broomstick. It bucks beneath him, and he's falling, the air whipping his hair into his eyes. He barely has time to shout, and all he can remember is to bend his knees as he twists around, desperate to land on his feet.He jerks to a stop inches before the green grass of the pitch.

Malfoy's beside him, his face white, his wand drawn. They hover in midair, staring at each other, both breathing hard.Harry's broom slams into the turf between them.

"What the hell was that?" Malfoy looks ill.

Harry stretches one leg. The toe of his trainer doesn't even brush the grass. He looks at his hands. They're still trembling. He closes his fists slowly, then opens them again. The familiar tingling across his palm fades.

"My magic." Malfoy eyes him.

"Right." A flick of his wand and Harry ends up on his arse, wincing.

The ground's uncomfortably hard beneath him. Malfoy hops off his broom. It drops next to Harry's.

"Explain."

"It's nothing really."

Harry stretches out on the grass and looks up at the twilight sky. It glows rosy, and he thinks he can pick out Venus shining brightly behind a thin cloud. He tries to remember what Trelawney told them about the planet in Divination. It controlled sex, he thinks, though Old Sybil had tried to couch it in more discreet terms. Romance, she'd called it. They'd all known what she was talking about.

The boys dormitories had been enthralled with sex since the first of them had a wet dream.

"'Nothing' doesn't send you plummeting from a broom," Malfoy says dryly. "I should know." He sits beside Harry, his knees drawn up to his chest.

"So." Harry rolls over onto his side and studies Malfoy.

 His shoulders have broadened since sixth year. Harry wonders if that's happened recently or over the last year. He realises he's only seen Malfoy a handful of times since that night on the tower.

"My magic," he says after a moment, "is a bit cocked up lately." He picks at a blade of grass, rubbing it between his fingertips.

 "Seems that sort of thing might happen when you lock horns with a Dark Lord." He hesitates. "And die." "You didn't." Malfoy watches him. His boots are scuffed, the soles covered with dirt. He's rolled the sleeves of his linen shirt up over his elbows and the hairs on his forearms glint gold in the fading sunlight. When he shifts, Harry can see the curves of the Dark Mark, black against Malfoy's skin.

Strangely, he doesn't care. He just has a sudden urge to trace the delicate jut of bone at Malfoy's wrist. "I did." Harry flops onto his back. The soft, green grass tickles the nape of his neck. It smells rich and earthy. "Mostly." He glances over at Malfoy.

"The afterlife looks rather like King's Cross." Malfoy wrinkles his nose. "Remind me to pursue immortality." His palms smooth over his trousers. "Did you really die then?" He hesitates. "Mother says the Dark Lord cast the Killing Curse on you, but it didn't work." "It did in a way." Harry stares at the clouds drifting across the rose-gold sky. "I just decided to come back." He closes his eyes for a moment and remembers the sense of peace he'd felt after the Curse hit him. "Sometimes I wonder why I didn't stay." Silence stretches out between them. Harry finally opens his eyes and looks over at Malfoy. Blond hair brushes Malfoy's cheek, obscuring his eyes. "Why didn't you?" Malfoy says at last, his voice quiet. "There were things left to do." Malfoy glances at him then. "Killing His Lordship." Harry shrugs. "Perhaps someone else could have done it at that point. Killing me weakened him." His fingers brush his scar. "But it needed to be me." His voice catches. "It had to be me." Malfoy doesn't say anything. A fly lands on his hand and he brushes it off, rubbing his thumb across his skin. He sighs.

 "There's a location charm on me, you know." He flexes his fingers and Harry's surprised at how rough they already are. His nails are ragged and torn, and two knuckles are scraped. The Malfoy he'd known in his six years at school had perfectly groomed hands. "The Ministry wants to know where I am at all times."