Running On Air

Chapter 11

The coastline of Sutton-on-Sea is flat and linear, unlike the meandering cliffs of the Cornish coast. The yachts skim across the water like bright kites, their sails catching the ocean breeze. The beaches are wide plains: soft and deep close to the footpath, but then the sand firms up, like packed brown sugar, as it nears the shoreline.

They sit on the sea defence wall and watch the yachts. There's a thin line of jagged wood, like teeth, farther along the beach and Harry suggests it's a shipwreck. Draco, far less inclined to think so fancifully, says it's the remains of a pier. A light argument ensues but soon dissolves when their attention is caught by two swimmers braving the sea and wading out past the breakers.

"They must be freezing," Harry observes. Even in summer, the sea here would hold an unwelcome chill.

The sun slowly sinks in the sky, casting long shadows over the land. Soon enough, the sky is darkening into a hazy dusk and the yachts slowly come in. Even the swimmers find their way ashore, pausing on the wet sand to towel themselves off and walk briskly towards the car park.

Draco and Harry return to the car and Harry wonders if Draco will ask him to choose another place. Maybe they'll keep driving, until spring melts into summer. A high summer, he thinks, with a propane-blue sky and fields of gold.

But Draco sits on the passenger's side and opens the atlas, and so Harry takes his cue and sits in the driver's seat. He readjusts the mirrors slightly and reverses out, half-expecting Draco to say something about his inadequate driving skills. Harry's realised, over the course of their journey, that Draco is indeed a very skilled driver.

But Draco doesn't say anything except "Turn onto Sutton Road," and it doesn't take Harry long to realise Draco's taking them home again.

As the last of the sunlight dies across the land and night slowly settles in, Harry wonders if they'll travel beside a river. He wants to see those stars reflected, falling around him as he drives on into the darkness.

Somewhere past Huntingdon, Draco falls asleep.

London appears as nothing more than a faint orange haze on the horizon, a blur of lights illuminating the smog hanging low over the city. The city creeps up slowly, like a tide slowly encompassing them. The rows of houses soon rise and fall, crescendoing into apartment blocks and office buildings, and soon, Harry realises, he's nearly home.

They arrive at the apartment at nine o'clock. Harry realises he hasn't eaten all day and neither has Draco; Harry's loathe to pester Draco about his lack of appetite but nevertheless sets about making a pot of tea and an enormous stack of toast, too tired to bother with a proper meal. Draco seems in agreement; he eats the toast without comment and disappears into the guest bedroom without another word. No doubt in need of a very long sleep, Harry thinks. Draco started the day easily enough, but it was obvious that he tired throughout the day and, by nightfall, he was clearly exhausted.

Going away is easy. Coming home is hard.

Hermione had warned him about this, he thinks. She'd specifically mentioned side-effects, but she hadn't gone into any detail. Draco probably needs proper medical care, Harry thinks with worry. People who might actually know about causes and symptoms and that sort of thing. Places that could provide appropriate medication. Or even the manor, where Draco could be surrounded by familiar rooms — luxurious ones, not a tiny spare bedroom in Harry's apartment — and have the attention of his mother, who knows him far better than anyone else, and be doted on by the house-elves.

But Draco didn't go to any of those people or places.

No; he came to Harry.

And perhaps Harry's not doing anything right. He's not organising things and owling people and telling them Draco's back. He's not doing any of the things he should be doing — he realises Draco hasn't even got a change of clothes, Harry didn't even think about that — and he didn't even prepare a meal for Draco until tonight, if tea and toast could be called a meal — and he's not doing anything that people normally do to help.