The Silent World Within You

Chapter 1: Summer PT6

Draco doesn't come to breakfast the next morning. Or dinner. He doesn't want to see Potter, doesn't want to face what he's admitted to him.Standing in the shower after a day spent rounding up Blast-Ended Skrewts who'd escaped their pens, water pouring over his head, down his aching shoulders and across his burnt palms, he curses himself for letting Potter see past his facade.

 It's not as if he's kept his sexuality a complete secret. It'd been known in Slytherin House the last term, and anyone who dared look at him askance had faced the wrath of Pansy Parkinson. Theo had tried it just once. He'd spent three days in the infirmary sicking up, and Snape had ignored his furious complaints, choosing instead to send him to detention with the Carrows.

Theo had never commented on Draco being a poof again. Draco avoids the Great Hall. He works; he sleeps; he sneaks to the kitchens for food. It's weak of him, he knows, but he can't bear seeing pity in Potter's eyes. It takes only a few days before Hagrid pulls Draco aside, questioning his noticeable absence at meals. Draco just shrugs and mumbles something about Potter being an arse before he returns his attention to the grass-cutting charm he's casting on the upper lawn.

He ought to have known that wouldn't be the end of it. Potter finds him in the Thestrals' clearing. Draco's been coming every afternoon to check on Druella, bringing her and Ismene handfuls of sugar cubes he's nicked from Hagrid's hut. He sits beneath the wide branches of a tree, laughing as Druella butts his shoulder with her beak, her tiny wings unfurling as she sneaks another sugar cube from Draco's palm. Her mother looks on indulgently from across the clearing."Hagrid told me you might be here," Potter says. He moves from the shadows silently, his hands in his jeans pockets. His hair is mussed and dusty from some castle corridor, Draco presumes.Draco doesn't answer. His hand smoothes across Druella's slick coat. Her hair's darkening now, changing from the dark grey of a newborn foal to an inky charcoal. She prances next to him for a moment before settling down next to him. She eyes Potter in what Draco can only hope is a sour manner. Druella doesn't seem to be fond of anything that takes Draco's attention from her. He scratches lightly behind her ear and she snuffs, leaning in to his touch.

Potter shifts from one foot to the other. He looks ridiculous in a worn black t-shirt that's obscenely too small for him, Draco thinks. He wonders what happened to Potter's penchant for clothes two or three sizes too large. His fingers card through Druella's rough mane."Hagrid thinks I've annoyed you." Potter turns his foot, rolling his trainer to one side before straightening up. Honestly, his posture is appalling. "I told him if I breathe it annoys you."Draco just looks at him. There's no sense in denying the truth. Potter runs a hand through his hair, pulling away a cobweb. He sighs and glances around the clearing. It seems to unsettle him.

"What?" Draco asks sharply.

"There used to be a colony of acromantula there" Potter points towards the edge of the clearing where an ancient, gnarled oak rests. Its trunk is split open and its dark branches twist up to tangle in the canopy of leaves above.

"Not anymore." Draco wonders at Potter's uncharacteristic unease. "I wouldn't have thought you'd be spooked by that, oh Chosen One and Slayer of Dark Wizards." With a sigh, Potter wraps his arms around himself as if he's chilled--not an impossibility this deep into the forest. Summer or not, it's still Scotland, and the sunlight that filters through the trees is spotty at best. Draco's just grateful that the midge-repellent charms he'd helped Hagrid cast his first week of Community Order are still holding. Mostly. He'd slapped one of the beastly creatures away this morning just before it latched its blood-sucking proboscis into his arm. Potter rubs his hands over his biceps and steps further into the clearing, turning to look around him.

"I died here," he says softly.Draco stills, his hand on Druella's back. He can feel the sharp bumps of her spine beneath his palm.

 "Here?" he asks after a moment. Potter nods. He pushes his glasses up his nose.

"It's a bit..." He trails off, lost in memory, his lip caught between his teeth. Ismene steps forward, tossing her mane. She nudges Potter's shoulder with her beak, and he smiles faintly at her, reaching up to smooth his hand across her coat. "I never would have thought you and Thestrals would get on." Draco pushes himself to his feet. Druella whinnies softly beside him, bumping against his hip. He calms her with a touch on her shoulder. She shifts on her thin legs; even after several weeks she's still unsteady at times. Firenze says its because she's growing so quickly that her centre of gravity shifts just as she's become used to it.

"I like them," Draco says. "They're..." He hesitates, looking for a word. "Calming." Potter snorts. "You and Luna should get together."

"Lovegood?" Draco arches an eyebrow. "Believe me when I say that particular branch of the Malfoys has been chopped quite thoroughly from the family tree. Grandfather Abraxas made certain of that."

"You're related?" Potter looks genuinely shocked. Sometimes Draco forgets how sheltered Potter is from wizarding society.

"Her grandmother was my grandfather's younger sister. She eloped with Alcibiades Lovegood when she was staying at the Dublin townhouse and then scandalised everyone by having Xenophilius six months later."

Potter blinks. "You kept her in your dungeon--"

"His Lordship kept her there," Draco snaps. His voice rises. He's tired of being blamed for everything the sodding Death Eaters did. "My parents made certain she was fed and stayed alive. She might be a complete nutter, but whether or not Grandfather Abraxas would approve, she's family. We're not monsters."

"Just to Muggles," Potter says tightly.Draco clenches his fists, pressing them to his sides. The last thing he needs is to have an assault of the Savior of the Wizarding World on his record. He doesn't know how he feels about Muggles and the Muggleborn any longer. He doesn't like them, he knows that much, and he doesn't want to be around them. But two years of living in fear have shown him how very mad His Lordship was, and he wants nothing to do with any of his father's old friends.

"Whatever you'd like to think," he says at last through gritted teeth. Potter watches him, an odd expression on his face. "You're not going to deck me?"

"What's the point?" Draco's tired. All he wants is for Potter to go away, to leave him alone in this clearing with his Thestrals. He's only a little longer left with them before Hagrid will expect him back at the hut for yet another assignment. He supposes it's strange that he'd prefer to stay in the forest, given how terrified he was of it as a child. Then again, he's learned there are other things to fear than beasts who would rather disturb you less than you'd like to disturb them. He saves his terror for people now.Potter just shrugs, then looks back at the Thestrals. Draco thinks perhaps Potter's disappointed, and he doesn't quite understand why.

"Hagrid says you're rather good with them," Potter says, with a nod towards Ismene and her herd. Her stallion eyes them both balefully. Creon, his name is, or at least that's what Firenze calls him. He still doesn't care for Draco. "I suppose." Draco's not certain what that says about him. Druella nudges his hip again, and he runs his fingertips behind her ears. She snuffs happily and prances beside him. Potter laughs. It's a surprisingly pleasant sound that unsettles Draco. "Why are you here?" he asks. "Felt like reliving the scene of your demise?"

"Not particularly." Potter's face clouds, and Draco feels a momentary pang of guilt. "I didn't realise..." He stops and sighs again. "Well, I did, I suppose. Maybe that's why Hagrid...." Another sigh, and he pushes his hands into his pockets. "He was here too, you know." Draco hadn't. His mother doesn't talk much about that night. All he knows is that somehow she kept Potter alive, and that was why neither she nor he were sitting in Azkaban alongside his father. "Hagrid," he says finally, and Potter nods.

"They had him tied to that tree," Potter says faintly, gesturing across the clearing to another, smaller oak. "All of them gathered here. They made him watch while I stood here..." He walks to a dip in the clearing. Ismene follows him, staying close. Potter stares off into the distance.Draco feels a frisson of fear. He doesn't like the look on Potter's face. Doesn't like the fact that he's out here alone with him. "Potter," he says, and his voice is sharp and high.Potter doesn't turn around. His shoulders jerk, and Draco steps forward, alarmed, visions of Potter's fall still in his mind. He'd thought his heart had stopped when he saw Potter lose his grip on the broomstick, tumbling towards the ground below. It'd been a repeat of the Quidditch match in which he and Vince and Greg had dressed as Dementors, in the hopes that Potter's infamous focus would be thrown off. If he closes his eyes he can still hear the bonecrunching thud of Potter's body striking the pitch. He'd spent that afternoon sicking up, coward that he was.Working with the Thestrals has taught Draco to be cautious. The stallions are the most high-strung. It'd only taken one painful strike of Creon's hoof on his shoulder for him to learn not to spook him. He moves slowly towards Potter, warily.

"Potter," he says again, and his fingers barely brush Potter's arm.He ends up with a wand tip at his jaw. Potter's eyes are bright and unfocused. Haunted. Draco stays still, but he sees Potter's gaze drop to the flutter of a pulse in his throat. Potter blinks. "I'd really rather you not hex me," Draco says. His voice only trembles slightly, a feat of which he's proud. The wand is still pressed against his skin. Draco recognises it. Hawthorn with a unicorn hair core. Ten inches. He'd used it for nearly seven years before Potter took it from him that night in the Manor. Part of him aches for it back, desperate to feel its familiar thrum against his palm. The Ministry would never allow it, though. He was lucky to have even a crippled wand of his own.

 McGonagall had made certain the Ministry had allowed him a few minor self-defence charms, claiming he'd need them in the Forbidden Forest. None of them would work against Harry Potter.

The wand drops a fraction of an inch. Enough to allow Draco to pull away. "Sorry," Potter says. He shakes his head, and runs a hand through his ridiculously messy hair. They look at each other for a long moment. Draco manages to keep his tongue. There's no damned sense in provoking Potter at the moment. Not here. "Do you have nightmares?" Potter asks finally. Draco nods. "Nearly every night," he whispers. He swallows, but he doesn't look away."Sometimes I think I hear you screaming," Potter says. "Late at night." Their rooms are down the hall from each other. Draco reminds himself to put up a Silencing Charm. He keeps quiet, though, to Potter's obvious discomfort. Potter steps back, sliding his wand into his pocket. "I should go. I just wanted to say you shouldn't avoid supper because of me. McGonagall's a bit narked at me because of that." Draco waits until he's at the edge of the clearing before he speaks. "Charity Burbage," he says, and his throat's thick.

Potter stops and looks back at him.

"Last night I dreamt about Charity Burbage."

"The Muggle Studies professor who resigned." Potter moves closer again. "She didn't resign." Draco's fingernails dig into his palms. He can barely feel them. "He killed her. There in the Manor, in front of us all, as she floated above the dinner table. She begged--" His voice catches and he shudders, closing his eyes. "She begged Snape to save her. They were friends, she said--" He doesn't know how his godfather had managed to turn away. He does know that Severus had never forgiven himself for her death.

"Christ," Potter breathes. Draco looks at him then. "His Lordship killed her, then fed her body to Nagini." He licks his bottom lip. "That's not something that you ever escape, Potter. I see her in so damned many dreams. Looking at me. Begging me to help her. And I can't." The ache in his throat builds. "I couldn't even save myself," he murmurs.

"None of us could," Potter says. For a moment Draco thinks Potter's going to reach for him, and a burble of panic twists through him. Instead Potter rocks back on his heels and rakes both hands through his hair. "War's hell, Malfoy," he says finally.Draco can't disagree. He watches Potter walk away, hands in his pockets, and he wonders why he can say things to the bastard that he can't even tell himself.

Later that night, long after dinner is finished, Draco finds a small, half-empty phial of potion beside his door. It's cool against Draco's fingers when he picks it up, and the familiar purple liquid sparkles in the light from the sconce above his shoulders.

The note beside it is unsigned, but he knows, somehow, that it must be from Potter's personal store. The Ministry requires his access to potions be restricted and monitored. Mustn't have the terrible misfortune of a Community Order offender offing himself, now must we? The parchment crinkles beneath his fingers as he unfolds it. Drink me, you git.

He smiles. For the first time in weeks Draco sleeps without dreams.

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