By The Light Of A Dying Flame ~ Drarry Fanfic

Chapter 28: Harry

Harry stood in an empty bedroom. The window was still open, and cold rain was pooling on the floor. He held a torn page in his hand, had read the words over and over, although there weren't that many words to read. He'd stared at the page until his eyes blurred, and then he'd crumpled it in his fist. He wasn't surprised, or even disappointed. Although, maybe he was—disappointed in himself. Idiot, stupid fucking idiot.

Nothing about what he'd had with Draco, whatever it had been, held any sense of permanency, like a parchment that dissolves the moment it touches flame. He found he wanted this parchment to burn like that, until it was nothing but ash. Heat began to gather in his palm, warmer and warmer, a hissing noise burying itself in Harry's skull. He could already smell the smoke—

"Harry?"

The hissing stopped. He didn't turn to face Hermione in the doorway, his eyes still fixed on the paper crushed savagely in his fist. He couldn't stomach seeing his own feelings reflected in her expression, the I told you so written in her eyes. "He's gone," he said, the words tumbling to the floor and landing dully at his feet.

A pause, in which Harry could practically hear the thoughts churning through Hermione's head. "What?"

"Draco," Harry said, not bothering to call him Malfoy—it would have been a lie, one Hermione had seen through the second Draco had walked through the door, Harry's heart clutched in his pale hand, blood dripping down his wrist. "He's gone."

Hermione came to stand by his side, unfolding his fingers from around the page and smoothing it flat against her open palm. She skimmed the two words before looking back up at Harry, her brown eyes achingly soft. "Do you know where he went?"

Harry shook his head, fighting against the image of Draco's face the night before when he'd asked if he'd ever be enough. The reassurances that lay buried deep in Harry's chest were useless now; he'd likely never get to say them to Draco, not if he'd gone back to the Death Eaters—or was captured by them. He couldn't decide which was worse.

"Did you tell him anything?" Hermione asked gently, her hand small and warm on his arm.

"Nothing of value," Harry said. He violently shook off the image of Draco's silver eyes, but they stayed imprinted on the darkness each time he blinked. He pulled away from Hermione to stride across the room and slam the window closed, hard enough that it rattled in its frame. Drawing his moleskine bag over his head as he passed the armoire, he shoved past Hermione again and slid on his trainers by the door. "I'm sorry," he muttered, repeating the words on the torn page, his fingers slipping on the laces as he tried to knot them. "A bloody joke—as if he's really sorry. As if he's even capable of that." He fumbled with the knot, releasing a sharp "Fuck" when it fell undone. His shoulders shook, with rage or something else, he couldn't tell. His vision began to blur, and Harry knew he was one fucking teardrop away from exploding.

Hermione knelt beside him, gently removing his hands so she could tie the laces for him. He watched her fingers moving carefully and fought the desire to sag against her, to let her hold him up. "I knew I couldn't trust him," he said quietly, each word a cut to his own skin. His scar was on fire, a white-hot poker embedded in his flesh, but the pain paled beside the yawning cavern in his chest, its ragged, bloody walls gaping wider with each breath.

"I think you did," Hermione replied, scanning his face with her brown eyes, "Trust him, I mean."

A tight laugh wrenched itself free from his mouth. "I really didn't, Hermione."

"But he was still here, Harry. The way you looked at him—"

"Don't," Harry said, almost a shout. He didn't want to yell, to take this simmering storm inside him out on her. It certainly wasn't her fault that Harry had been such a goddamn fool, that he had let Draco carve his way into Harry's brain and destroy any semblance of rational thought. He was a Death Eater, a Slytherin, his childhood bully. A snake in the grass. He could kiss away Harry's pain until the sun came up, but he would never put down the knife dug into Harry's back.

Harry stood and turned toward the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. He felt himself fighting for control, a fierce shaking begging for release under his skin, and he had to close his eyes and breathe deeply to steady himself. His palm was still uncomfortably hot, as if he'd stuck his hand into a flame just to see if it would hurt. "It doesn't matter anymore," he insisted, voice as hollow as his chest, his lungs failing him. "It never did. He's gone—and we have a job to do."

Hermione rose slowly, her amber eyes watching him, always watching, always seeing. She pulled his hand from the door, the faint scar of I must not tell lies disappearing as she folded her own hands around his. "It will always matter," she said gently. "Even if it doesn't last, even if it takes something from you—it matters."

Harry looked down at their linked hands, then up into her tender eyes. His heart gave a painful thump, and he squeezed her hand gently before dropping it. "Let's finish this," he said, regret burning his throat as he faced the door, Hogwarts a siren song in the distance. His fingers flexed, an ache pulsing through their fragile bones. He glanced down at his hand, at the scar there. "And I'll need a wand."