When The Smoke Clears

How It Started

The guilt was killing him. Harry could almost see it, like a black-mouthed parasite, destroying Draco from the inside out. The candlelit vigil had unlocked something in him, broken down the walls he'd built around his heart to forget about the past. But now it came, in relentless waves: the memories of his mistakes, every biting remark, every tear he caused to roll down Hermione's cheeks, the sharp pang of shame he felt when he found out about the death of Fred Weasley.

Harry desperately wanted to help in any way he could. Sitting around and giving Draco comforting hugs wasn't doing much. Harry noticed how his pale hands shook, the shadows under his eyes growing deeper from lack of sleep, the way he flinched away from Ron and Hermione as if afraid to break them with a single touch.

The night after the Quidditch game, Harry and Draco went to the Owlery together to send their Auror applications. Athena was more than up to the task of carrying two thick envelopes to London, especially when Harry offered her a strip of crispy bacon. She snapped the morsel up, hooted appreciatively, and swooped off the ledge, gray wings fading into the starlit dark. Draco watched her go with a blank expression, as if resigning himself to his forced future. Harry didn't have to ask if he was happy at this moment; he knew the answer already.

"It's going to be fine," Harry reassured him, but his words sounded hollow. "Your paper's really well done, and your grades are perfect. There's no way they won't let you in." He knew that getting into Cambridge wasn't what Draco worried about, but he couldn't think of anything else to say.

Draco only nodded, shoving his hands into his robe pockets, not something he did very often: a clear sign that he didn't want to talk.

The week passed by in a detached sort of way. Harry was content on the surface, practicing tricky Transfiguration with Ron while Hermione corrected their form, hanging out with them in the common room, kissing Draco goodnight at the end of each day. Draco, whom Harry knew wasn't happy.

The guilt was killing him.

The image of Athena swooping away with their meticulously written letters ignited something in Harry's brain, a spark that he tossed around for as long as it took to blaze. He ordered something from a Hogsmeade shop by owl post, and it arrived on Friday afternoon, just in time.

At midnight, he found Draco slumped by the lake window, curled in a blanket with his head on a pillow as if he was sleeping. Harry saw his reflection in the glass, eyes half-closed, brow furrowed in worry. Draco spotted him soon enough, tearing his gaze away from the seaweed-filled view. "What are you doing here? It's late."

"I could ask you the same thing." Harry sat down next to him, placing a large, forest-green velvet box between them. Draco regarded it with tired confusion, slowly lifting himself to a sitting position.

"Is this for me?"

"It's your birthday, isn't it?"

Draco's expression didn't change. "Yes. How'd you know?"

"I figured it was in June, but I asked Henrietta to be sure."

"Ah. Should I...?" He reached tentatively towards it.

"Obviously." Harry smiled teasingly, but Draco hardly seemed to notice.

He carefully lifted the top of the box. The lid blocked Harry's view, but he knew what was inside: sheets of neat-edged parchment, an inkwell with self-filling deep blue ink, a wax seal kit, a thin, black marble tablet, and an ostrich quill the color of an overcast sky, tipped with engraved silver. The gift might have looked pretentious for anyone else, but Harry felt it suited Draco's muted elegance.