Away Childish Things

Chapter 11

June 2012
Harry Potter: 31 years
Draco Malfoy: 15 years

When Harry's Patronus appeared to him downstairs, Harry went upstairs to find Draco catatonic on the couch. Though Harry laid him out, he left Draco there. The sitting room was more open than the bedroom, and Harry didn't want Draco to feel trapped.

After making sure Draco was safely arranged on the couch, Harry enlarged Draco's clothes again. The sandwich was gone, so probably Draco had eaten, but Harry got out water biscuits just in case. Then Harry had a quick shower and changed his own clothes, summoning them from Grimmauld Place. Dressed and clean after a day of watching Draco age, Harry set to work fixing the floral-print chair. He'd always liked that chair. He hoped it was salvageable, and trying to repair it was better than sitting there watching Draco be unconscious. That was all Harry really wanted to do.

"Incendio."

The chair lit on fire.

"Draco!" Whirling around, Harry found Draco sitting up and looking at him blankly. Turning back to the chair, Harry drew his wand. "Aguamenti!" Water splashed from Harry's wand over the flames, effectively dousing them. The top of the chair was charred.

"Incendio," said Draco's bored voice.

The chair remained half-burnt and flameless. Draco had set fire to something else, Harry realized, spinning again to find the table on fire. "Aguamenti!" Harry said, causing water to rain down on the table.

"Incendio. Incendio. Incendio."

The books were on fire.

"Draco! Expelliarmus! Exaero! Exaero! Exaero!" As Draco's wand came hurtling into Harry's hand, air whooshed from the direction of the bookcases into Harry's wand, depriving the flames of oxygen. The fires shrank, then died out, and Harry cast the spell to release the captured air back into the room. Draco's heart would break, Harry thought wildly, if the books got wet.

Then he looked down at the hawthorn wand in his hand, the warm friendly tingle in it that he remembered. He also remembered the last time he'd disarmed Draco, how that had been the key to defeating Voldemort-having control of the Elder Wand. Harry had never told Draco about it. He hadn't needed to know. Putting the wands away, Harry went back over to the sofa.

Draco was just sitting there, staring at the hearth. His eyes looked empty, lifeless. Like gravestones. "Well," Draco said. "Diggory is dead. Who needed him. The true Hogwarts champion."

"Draco."

"My father was there, wasn't he? That's what you meant about him killing people. My father killed Cedric Diggory. How about that."

"Peter Pettigrew killed Cedric," Harry said. "It happened before your father got there."

"I wish he would have been there. I wish he had killed you too."

"You don't mean that."

"I do. I wish," Draco said, but stopped. "I wish . . . oh fuck." Tears began to fill his eyes. "You're a liar," he said. "A filthy rotten liar! The Dark Lord does win; he does, and Father . . . Father, he-I want my dad." Then Draco was sobbing, and Harry couldn't help it, he moved toward him. "Don't touch me," Draco said, scrambling away. "You're-you're-you're a fucking queer."