Work Text:
—
iv
When Harry opened his eyes, it was to an enveloping darkness, as if he’d never opened his eyes at all. The only indication he was already awake was the faint light in between the shadows. It wasn’t long until the scent of dried leaves and soil, alive and acrid, assaulted his nose.
“Draco, is he alive?”
The warmth of Narcissa Malfoy’s hand seeped through the layers of his clothing, and only then did he realize that he was actually quite cold. His jacket and his shirt and his t-shirt were soaked for some reason he couldn’t remember, chilling his skin. He shivered.
Mouth dry, Harry inclined his head the smallest bit—a sorry excuse for a nod.
Narcissa’s breath wafted against his cheek when she sighed, the scent somehow oddly pleasant. Like she hadn’t just been standing beside a madman raging war against a seventeen year old boy. Like she didn’t want him dead. It was strange to think that she didn’t, but her breath smelling like Mrs. Weasley’s after helping herself to an apple pie on a Sunday dinner made it easy.
All too suddenly, Narcissa’s comforting warmth was gone, and Harry let his eyelids give in to tiredness. He could stay there forever, despite the damp grass and hard twigs digging into his side. Even with the insects playing at the tips of his fingers. He wanted to flick them away but decided against it. Not their fault they happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.
“Cissy? The boy?” Bellatrix’s voice was surprisingly soft and melodious when it wasn’t hurling out curses.
A beat passed. Harry listened to the fluttering of robes and quiet footsteps, willing his body not to move at the ticklish sensation against his skin.
“Dead.”
This time, Harry allowed himself a small shudder and a smile.
—
ii
Harry missed Hagrid, but he missed Narcissa’s sweet scent more. Hagrid smelled as if he hadn’t taken a bath for far too many days, not that Harry would’ve expected him to do so. His huge body felt sluggish against Harry’s limp form, like he hadn’t been able to take proper rest in the past 24 hours. Like he had been carrying the world in his calloused hands and Harry’s feather-light weight had just tipped him over.
Hagrid sobbed openly, different from the ridiculously small sniffles he’d allowed Harry to see in the past. His howls were louder than the high-pitched jeers of the Death Eaters who trailed after them, louder than Voldemort’s grating, screechy laughter. Louder than the sound of his own furiously beating heart, pressed directly against Harry’s ear.
His grip was tight, and at the same time gentle. Not that there was any other way Hagrid would hold a dear friend. Harry wanted to reassure him that he was still breathing, in surprising thanks to Narcissa Malfoy. Well. Maybe not so surprising.
Harry carefully let out a long, quiet breath, urging his heart beat to calm and stop trying to match Hagrid’s. Better to take as much rest as he could before he’s needed to move again.
Multi-coloured starlights danced behind Harry’s eyelids. Would’ve been easy to pretend he was just at a Wheezes fireworks exhibition, if Harry could ignore Hagrid’s cries. But he couldn’t, and he wondered if he’d ever get that rest.
—
iii
Harry’s limbs moved even before his eyes had caught up with his surroundings. Neville’s heartfelt speech was like a switch. Screams and laughter and curses and squeals blended into one ringing sound against Harry’s ears, for a split second disorienting him. He reached to the back of his pants, feeling the emptiness of his back pocket and tsked.
“Potter!”
Like a beacon, Draco’s voice cut through all the noise. Harry whipped his head so fast it made his neck crack, eyes immediately trained to the palest head he saw.
Harry ran. Away from the greens and reds that zinged over his head, through the smoke and dust that threatened to choke him, towards the space where Draco would meet him in the middle. In his haste, he didn’t see much. Only managed to wonder how fast Draco ran, if his legs were also tired, and if he felt the same flutter in Harry’s chest when their eyes met.
Something flew in the air and Harry’s hands shot out, catching it as if it were a snitch. It wasn’t—his palms curved inwards into the smooth surface of a wand instead. It felt warm and reassuring, like Narcissa’s hand, and the sparks that flew from its tip when Harry cast was light like Draco’s hair.
He looked up to find Draco’s face, almost near but still quite far, all red and blotchy and thinner than it usually was. They’ve pissed and kissed and fought each other off numerous times, but it was only then that Harry saw that particular shade, that particular shape.
It was the only kind of red that Harry allowed to linger in his mind.
—
v
After everything’s said and done, Harry found himself tucked in one of the alcoves of the Great Hall. He didn’t see much from his vantage point, but he’d caught footsteps of people walking by. Nobody’s attempted to pull him away so far, not with Draco’s taller form beside him, obscuring him from the rest of the world.
Harry tightened his hand around Draco’s, whose palm was cold and clammy. Even though the back of his hand got wet when Draco’s tears fell on them, he didn’t let go. He wouldn’t dare, and he couldn’t, really. The bone-weary tiredness seeped into his muscles so deeply that he couldn’t manage any more than a pathetic squeeze to comfort Draco. Harry leaned back, hissing lowly as the back of his head collided with the wall, then closed his eyes.
He wasn’t sure how long they’ve been there; he didn’t have a watch with him. But he knew that Draco’s had 33 hiccoughs, 16 whimpers, and 21 heaves since they sat on that spot. Belatedly he wondered if he should’ve cast a Muffliato, but he’d rather spend his energy keeping hold of Draco’s shaking hand. He slumped further down, resting his temple on Draco’s bony shoulder.
35 hiccoughs.
Harry swallowed, then inhaled. It didn’t make sense that despite everything, Draco still managed to smell overwhelmingly of vanilla and cinnamon. The stench of fire and dust and blood was too distant, like an incredibly delayed afterthought. He turned slightly, nudging against cold skin, and took a deeper breath. There was no fire or dust or blood, just the pulsing warmth of another person.
Draco made another sound, this time closer to a gasp. “Potter...”
Harry trailed his nose up to the spot just behind Draco’s ear and pressed his lips there. Draco shook even more, his sobs turning into audible breaths. 2 gasps. Harry’s lips mapped Draco’s damp jaw, trailed soft kisses over a damper cheek, and caught Draco’s salty, trembling mouth. His tongue probed further as Draco let him in. Harry couldn’t help himself from chasing the taste of sugar quills Draco loved snacking on.
Eyelashes heavy with tears, Harry pulled back and opened his eyes. Draco’s were still closed, but his lips—glistening, brighter, fuller—weren’t. Again, Harry couldn’t help himself, this time from leaning back in.
“Harry,” Draco whispered, as if the name were a prayer.
The afternoon sunlight cast orange glows that brought out the flush in Draco’s skin further. Harry decided it was now his favourite shade of orange. He waited, for a second or two, until he was finally staring into grey eyes, and smiled.
“It’ll be all right,” he said, just as quiet and reverent, “It’ll be all right.”