Scattered Pieces (Drarry Fanfic)

Chapter Thirteen: Sang Impur

Crossing a dream with my old lost car.

It's smell brings the dead memories back.

Crossing a dream. 

— Highway of Endless Dreams by M83

~oOo~

Harry sits at the bar, nursing a tumbler of firewhisky, a dark scowl marring his fine features. He had sulked in the kitchen, stewing in his thoughts under Kreacher's watchful eye. Eventually feeling suffocated in his own house, he had Floo'd to the first place he could think of; still wearing his bloodied Auror robes. 

Arriving at the Leaky looking as he did, Harry had raised quite a few eyebrows, but the positively frigid atmosphere surrounding him had stopped the questions from coming. He'd noticed a few fellow Aurors, but he chose not to join them, merely offering a nod of acknowledgement, opting instead to sit by himself.

He throws back the rest of his drink and shrugs off his robes, draping it haphazardly over the back of his chair. Sighing, he scrubs his hands roughly over his face, wondering now if he should have Floo'd Ron and asked his best mate to come join him.

"Rough day, Harry?" A soft voice, tentative yet warm, breaks into his reverie.

He looks up, swallowing back an irritated sigh, and manages a strained smile for Hannah Abbott, Neville's fiancée and the current owner of the new and vastly much improved Leaky Cauldron.

Seeing the look on his face, Hannah laughs quietly, refilling Harry's glass. "I'll take that as a resounding yes."

Harry relaxes slightly; his smile turning genuine. "Thanks for not pointing out the fact that I look like utter shite, Hannah."

"Anytime." She beams at him in amusement, resting her elbows onto the bar, settling down for a chat. "No Ron tonight?"

Harry shakes his head, taking a long pull of his drink. "I just needed some space." He gives her a sheepish grin.

"Oh!" Hannah flushes pink, embarrassed. "I'm so sorry, Harry, and here I am bothering you."

Suddenly realising what he just said and feeling like a right arse, Harry's eyes widen. "No! I mean... It's fine—! Er... I could probably use the company—" He stutters lamely, running a hand through his tousled mane. He grimaces when his fingers snag through it. He probably should've taken a quick shower before leaving. He's just now realising that parts of his hair are still matted with Seamus' dried blood. He groans, folding his arms on top of the bar and dropping his head onto them with a thud.

"That bad, huh?" Hannah muses sympathetically, propping both elbows on the countertop, resting her chin in her hands.

A muffled grunt is all Harry could muster as he buries his head deeper into the crook of his arms. He's not even really angry. Although he had seemed like it, he definitely wasn't. It's a defense mechanism he's developed over the years whenever the painful memories of the War reared its ugly head to haunt him. He has taken to falling back into his Undercover Auror Training—turning off his emotions; instinctively assuming a persona vastly different from his own; dissociating himself from whatever feelings that could cloud his judgement, only leaving himself with a clear, rational mind to effectively assess any given situation, no matter how dangerous. Occlumency. It has eventually become easy for him, which is the reason why he's so fucking brilliant at his job. Even Snape would be impressed. Perhaps having Voldemort inside his head for a few years was a blessing in disguise after all.