I've returned from the past

Part 2: Chapter 1

"The only reason people want to be masters of the past

is so they can change the future" - Harry James Potter

-o.O.o-

Harry smothered his breathing with the sleeve of his auror robes, squeezing his eyes shut and listening to the creaking darkness, the quiet groan of the house. The darkness pulled at every corner and there was a distinctive wrongness in the air. Everything was wrong, off balance- off set by so much death.

He can't breath but he wants to smash something, he wants to break the house, set it on fire- but he can't.

Draco is barely breathing in his arms, chest dipping and rising too shallowly and too far apart for it to mean anything other than he's barely holding on.

It's not a surprise, there's blood everywhere.

There's scratches that line his body and his robes are torn, revealing a disfigured body beneath. Harry still clutches at him like Hagrid had once clutched his own body, like it might make a difference. But the difference this time, was that this one was still breathing and had no chance of coming back after. Once Harry let go- once Harry stopped bleeding his own life force into Draco's body- the wizard would die.

There was a clatter on the stairs and Harry's breathing hitched. The spell would break if he moved from the bathroom. He'd locked the door and they sat in the tub, blood everywhere. Harry would never get it out of his mind, ever.

Draco was too pale and it was only now that Harry was realising he'd actually gotten a pretty good tan during their work- and now it was gone, faded- pale, ghostly. Long pale white hair was covered in blood and Harry wanted to sob.

It was all to similar to what he'd done so many years ago, out of fear, out of accusation when all of it had been so fucked up and wrong.

He wants to shout and ask why he deserved all this bullshit-

Instead, he breathes shallowly into Draco's hair, breathing that stupid shampoo he always uses- and blood- but he focuses on the shampoo.

If he died here too it would be less painful.

But he listens to the sharp intakes- and he can't do anything to ease it- to make it easier. He trembles and keeps holding- keeps feeding magic to regenerate the blood lost, to keep the heart beating-

It's out of desperation. It's not a spell, it's wordless, it's wand-less- it's the bare essence of magic. Emotion and intent.

He needs Draco alive because there's words left unsaid between them, he needs his partner and if he survives he'd stay solo or retire as an Auror.

There's scratching and clawing at the door and Harry trembles, hiding his face in Draco's neck, coating his face in blood.

He'd throw up, if he wasn't so terrified and frozen to do so.

He doesn't breathe but the wards hold. The bodies on the other side can't reach them- Harry had finally tapped into that power he was supposed to have defeated Voldemort with. Power that flowed from him into the walls and floors of the bathroom and into Draco-

It's draining and he feels light headed. He wasn't supposed to do it like this but no one taught him how to manage the magic he has inside- the wells that never dry and that could be flooded if he didn't use magic for a period of time.