Running On Air

Chapter 16

Draco takes over the driving at Birmingham again. Harry isn't sure where they're going, but he doesn't mind.

"Get some sleep," Draco tells him and Harry nods. He faces Draco, his eyes barely open, just enough to observe Draco without him noticing. Every now and again, the orange glow of a streetlight fades over the car, or the passing headlights of another car, illuminating Draco for a second. Always looking ahead, he thinks, gazing at Draco's face. Never looking away.

He falls asleep with his gaze still lingering on Draco.

When he wakes next, it's a slow surface to reality, the blurred lights gradually coming into focus. Intersections dotted with traffic lights, bright streetlights, cars flashing past. The sound of trains rumbling nearby. Harry straightens up in his seat, blinking slowly. London, he realises. They're in London. His watch beeps: three in the morning. But this city never sleeps and the traffic is busy even now. Harry wonders how many people are on their way to Heathrow, on their way to a thousand destinations he can only dream about.

"Where are we going?" he murmurs, voice still raspy with sleep. Draco glances at him.

"You're going home."

The warm sleepiness falls away from Harry like a cloak. He looks at Draco, his heartbeat quickening.

"Home...?" he repeats.

"Your apartment," Draco says.

The concrete box in the sky. Is this where it all ends? The flat sandy beaches of Sutton-on-Sea, the bright bustle of Brighton, the soaring and windswept cliffs of the Cornish coastline, the canola meadows of Wiltshire, the star-filled sky of Snowdonia —

— and it all ends here, at an empty apartment with dusty furniture and blank walls?

In inceptum finis est.

Well, of course this is how it will end. This was borrowed time, this trip. A journey stolen, moments that weren't supposed to happen, memories that were never supposed to be given. And now Draco will go back to the manor, to his fussing mother and doting house-elves, and Harry will go back to his blank white apartment and stand on the balcony and drink scotch, and maybe if he listens closely enough he might hear someone whistling blow the wind southerly, southerly, southerly...

In the deep and pristine wilderness of Snowdonia, it had felt like the moon had balanced on his heart, light and clear as the sky itself. Here, in London, it seems to weigh on him, heavy as lead, making it hard to breathe. The weight only grows heavier as they leave the highway and follow increasingly familiar roads. At last, they've reached the apartment block; Draco parks the Renault with the same easy grace he always has, whether he's standing on the edge of a cliff in Cornwall or taking Harry's hand to show him a lake full of stars. For a moment, Harry's heart lifts as Draco walks with him to the stairwell, but then he remembers he's been driving for hours. A cup of coffee before he leaves again would be a basic courtesy, at least.

It feels strange to be back in the apartment again. It takes him ages to find his keys, and longer yet to open the door. The air has a faintly dusty scent to it, Harry thinks as he flicks on the light switch, illuminating the white walls, the empty shelves, the kitchen counters without clutter. The curtains are all open and beyond the river, the city lights twinkle. Harry slowly sets his keys upon the empty counter.

"Coffee? Haven't got any milk," Harry adds, but Draco shakes his head.

"Tea's fine."

Harry wasn't away for long, but for some reason he has trouble remembering where everything is. Was the sugar kept on the second or third shelf? He opens a cupboard to fetch mugs, but it turns out to be full of glasses. He may as well be in the house of a stranger. While they're waiting for the kettle to boil, Draco takes a seat at the island counter and trails a hand along the edge of it.