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Rating:
Teen And Up Audiences
Archive Warning:
No Archive Warnings Apply
Category:
Multi
Fandom:
Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationships:
Draco Malfoy/Harry PotterHarry/Ginnypast Draco/Astoria
Characters:
Draco MalfoyHarry PotterHermione GrangerRon WeasleyAstoria GreengrassGinny Weasley
Additional Tags:
MysteryDramaFriendshipSlow BurnRomance
Language:
English
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Published:2014-09-30Completed:2014-12-25Words:74885Chapters:17/17Comments:407Kudos:2311Bookmarks:912
Running on Air
eleventy7
Chapter 14
Chapter Text
Harry sits in the passenger side of the Renault for a long time, listening to engine tick as it cools.
At first, he's still angry and begins mentally preparing the long rant he plans to deliver upon Draco's return.
But an hour passes and still Draco doesn't reappear, and soon Harry's anger melts into regret as he replays the argument. Draco had been irritable and snappish right from the start, but so had Harry. It could have been a simple miscommunication — oh, I'm not angry with you, Draco could have said.
But a little voice of reason adds you could have been a lot clearer too.
Harry flushes guiltily, thinking how the argument had reminded him of their schoolyard rivalry. He'd been quick to feel defensive and take every remark as an insult. Now that he analyses the entire argument, he thinks that he would have interpreted Draco's comment about Neville as a harmless joke or even a playful jest had Ron or Hermione said it.
Well, he won't apologise, he thinks stubbornly. Draco hadn't been reasonable either, after all. Harry might take a little blame, but only, for example, a quarter.
No more, no less.
* * *
When two hours have passed since Draco disappeared, Harry grimaces when he thinks of what he said. At least I have friends.
That hadn't been fair at all, Harry thinks, feeling ashamed. It's just...Draco had sounded a lot like he used to whenever they were slinging insults at Hogwarts, and even though Draco's expression had been anger rather than a smirk, Harry had just sort of responded automatically with a personal insult...
Maybe he'll take half the blame. But no more.
* * *
When three hours have passed since Draco disappeared, Harry thinks he'll accept all the blame. He sits in the driver's seat and places his hands on the wheel; he stares unseeingly at the road atlas; he leaves the car and paces restlessly around it.
Come back, and I'll apologise, he thinks desperately. I don't mind saying sorry if you're here.
But Draco doesn't come back.
* * *
Come nightfall, Harry drives to Landewednack. It's a reluctant journey. He can't stop worrying.
He's worried over many things during his life. The knot of fear and anxiety in his stomach is certainly not unfamiliar. He knows the feeling well, whether from things like his first Quidditch match or the challenges of the Triwizard Tournament, whether from the safety of his friends or the future of Hogwarts students during the persecution of Muggleborns.
But it's certainly new to be worrying about Draco Malfoy.
Before he leaves, Harry carves the coordinates for Landewednack into a fence post, hoping that if Draco returns to the spot he will be able to locate Harry. Still, it's a long and lingering departure. Harry keeps thinking, I'll wait just another minute. And then, when the minute passes without sign of Draco, he thinks just another minute. At long last he leaves. But even as he starts the engine and turns the indicator on, he's vainly hoping for Draco to reappear.
But the nondescript and empty patch of road slowly disappears in the rear-vision mirror as Harry drives away.
* * *
In Landewednack, he finds a boutique guesthouse close to the coastal walking track. It appears to be of a markedly higher quality than the other places they've stayed. The receptionist chatters brightly to Harry about the weather and gives him the key for the room.
"You're on the second floor, on the eastern side," she says cheerfully. "Breakfast is served from seven to nine, and we have maps and brochures available for your perusal. Enjoy your stay."
"Thanks." Harry pauses. "I'm waiting for another guest to arrive, actually." Just in case.
"Tonight? We close in an hour."
"Tomorrow. Maybe the day after."
"Would you like to book a separate room? Your current suite is a twin share."
"No, that's fine." He gives her Draco's name and she assures him she'll 'send him through' if he arrives.
Harry finds his room with little difficulty. Draco would like it, he thinks. There's an expansive view over the emerald-green fields, leading to the dramatic drop of the cliffs. The ocean, bright in the setting sun of midsummer, looks tranquil and gentle, a far cry from the lashing waves of winter that last greeted Harry on this coast.
There are two double beds; he chooses the bed closest to the window, trailing a hand along the crisp linen. There's very little to unpack — a few sets of clothing he bought in Hopper's Crossing, his washbag with a toothbrush, razor and comb. Still, Harry spends a long time rearranging the items. When he's exhausted that activity, he roams the small room. There's a little balcony. An armchair in the corner of the room, a small writing desk in the other corner.
He's trying to distract himself, he knows. It's futile.
He goes to a nearby pub for dinner but he returns just an hour later, unable to enjoy himself despite the pleasant meal and scenic walk back to the guesthouse. The receptionist seems to guess at his question before he says a word.
"No guests," she says.
Harry nods and walks tiredly to his room.
* * *
He wakes early, before sunrise. He stands on the balcony and looks out across the dark line of the Cornish coast. The predawn air is crisp with a salted ocean breeze, but soon it will be tempered by a warm summer day. It's the seventeenth of June, Harry remembers.
The fifth of June...the day Draco arrived on his doorstep, tossed his cloak casually across the kitchen counter, and said Come for a drive?
It had been Draco's birthday. He would have turned twenty-five.
In the east, over the dark cliffs and the summer-soothed sea, the sky lightens.
Just a little.
* * *
Harry spends the morning walking along the coastal track. It's not the same, he thinks. He liked it better during his earlier visits. When the winter winds howled through the crumbling cliff edges, when the waves lashed across craggy rocks, when the sea sung a fierce song to a crescent moon.
Now, the land is bright and green, the sea sparkling beneath the light of summer. The abandoned holiday houses are filled once more with sunburned faces and laughing voices. As Harry follows the meandering track, he passes by at least three couples, a young family, and an elderly man with an equally elderly terrier.
Harry turns his face to the cloudless blue sky. He wishes it was winter again.
Or maybe he wishes it was night.
Or maybe he wishes it was three o'clock in the morning, and if he looks to his left he'll see Draco there. I wanted to see where the land ended, Draco will say.
Harry drops his gaze from the sky and looks west, to the Celtic Sea. Somewhere across the horizon, across the ceaseless tides and winding currents, it will meet the North Atlantic Ocean. And all the oceans meet each other, and all the land becomes a never-ending constellation circling the world.
Maybe he just wishes Draco was here.
* * *
Harry has responsibilities. Things he left behind. People waiting for him. He doesn't want Hermione or Ron to worry, of course, and he wants to send them another owl, let them know he's all right. But he finds himself caring very little about everything else.
That night, he stands on the little balcony and rests his hands on the wrought-iron railing, just to feel something solid. As if he's trying to ground himself, as if electricity is pouring through him.
He's not really sure he wants to be an Auror anymore. He always wanted to, back when he was sixteen and coded the world according to simple dualities. Good or bad, black or white, better or worse.
But of course, there's no dualities. Just degrees of difference.
It's a shame it took him so long to learn that.
* * *
Another early start the next day; he wakes up just after sunrise. It's still another hour before breakfast is served and he whiles away the time gazing out across the cliffs. It's all he ever seems to do: stand on a balcony and stare at the world. Trains and cliffs and lights and oceans.
He goes downstairs at seven and takes an hour to eat breakfast. His appetite seems to have vanished. He wonders if he should go back home, but there is no home. The apartment is nothing more than a box in the sky. Hogwarts — his first home, his real childhood home — is forever gone, accessible only by memory. It's home to a thousand other children now, and it's a bittersweet thought. And everywhere else in his life he's merely been a visitor, a stranger. He may have lived with the Dursleys for seventeen years, but it was never home; he may have considered The Burrow his home too, but the people have long gone — Ginny always travelling, the rest all moved out or married — and the rooms are empty.
He doesn't belong anywhere.
Except maybe in a Renault Mégane, burning down the M27 at midnight, tracing the lines of relationships across the land.
* * *
In the evening, Harry drives.
Or maybe he's not driving, maybe he's searching. For Draco, for a memory, for a state of mind, for home, for anywhere and everywhere.
He drives the long and winding country roads, past fields still tipped with sunlight in the late sunset of summer. The coast disappears behind him, the windblown cliffs giving way to open grassland. Harry can see the bright light of the sun in his rearview mirror, a brilliant and final spark of defiance streaming across the horizon. Soon, the bright sunset has faded to little more than a fingerprint of pale purple, a soft bruise across the sky. In the south, the moon is a pale ghost in the faint light of dusk, and the first stars appear. That's what Harry always missed, when he lived in London. The smog-thick night never gave him a sky full of stars.
He returns to Landewednack, driving through the narrow streets. Past the church with the kissing gate, the small cottages, the bridge crossing a small inlet. The guesthouse — a restored country estate — sits at the end of a meandering lane, set against the backdrop of the Cornish coast. Although the night is still young, most of the windows are dark. The other guests will already be asleep, preparing for early beach walks and trips to the nearby coves.
Harry parks the Renault and makes his way past the reception, up the two flights of stairs, and to his empty room.
* * *
Later on that night, he leaves again to follow the winding thread of the south-west coastal track. The sun has long set; the smiling couples and elderly dog-walkers have long since retreated to their cosy beds and distant dreams.
There's a wide curve of a cliff nearby. It could be the same one he visited in Draco's memories, but Harry doesn't care to revisit it. Instead, he follows the slow descent of the path until he's standing in a sheltered cove. The shallow water washes gently over the silt and sand before retreating again, and Harry's reminded of how the ocean sometimes feels like an echo of his pulse.
He takes off his shoes and lets the waves wash over his feet. Further out, the waves curl until they crest and crash, rushing inland until nothing more than a rippled tide reaches Harry.
He should go home, he thinks. Buy a new apartment. Buy a hundred apartments, it doesn't matter. They all look the same. Go and return to his Auror job. Arrest Dark magic users. Greedy criminals, pureblood zealots, desperate teenagers, people needing quick money. It doesn't matter. They all look the same.
Before Draco, he knew exactly what he wanted. Maybe that's why he feels a little angry at Draco, Harry thinks. People can't just step into his life, change it, and step back out again. But past the anger, Harry thinks despairingly, is fear. It's terrifying to realise how much control Draco has over his life. With a handful of memories and a few conversations, he can change Harry's perspective; with a midnight road-trip, he can make Harry feel amazingly alive; with a brief argument and a quick Disapparation, he can make Harry worry for days.
The reception will be closed, Harry thinks. It doesn't matter. He'll Disapparate.
As the moon reaches its zenith and begins its almost-imperceptible descent, he vanishes with a faint pop.
* * *
And when he appears in the middle of the guesthouse room, Draco is there.
He's standing on the balcony, gazing out across the dark horizon of the Cornish coastline, but he turns to look at Harry after a moment.
"I'm sorry," Draco says.
It's odd to remember, Harry thinks, how he used to be infuriated by Draco's arrogance at Hogwarts. That sheer refusal to apologise, or admit wrong, or do anything vaguely resembling moral responsibility. That little ferret wouldn't apologise if his life depended on it, Ron had said once, and Harry had laughed. Seeing Draco Malfoy apologise, they had agreed, would be one of the most victorious moments in their lives.
There's nothing about this moment that feels victorious.
"You left," Harry says. "Four days." The words drop into the air like heavy stones.
"I know."
"You left. Do you have any idea — " Harry quickly cuts himself off, aware of the tremor beneath his voice. He's horrified at the idea of losing composure now and he strides to the bedside table, searching blindly for the keycard, something — anything — to focus on —
Draco steps away from the balcony, crosses the room in a few swift strides, and holds out the Renault keycard.
"Is that what you're looking for?"
Harry reaches out to take the keycard but before he realises what's happening, Draco's seized his hand and isn't letting go.
"I shouldn't have left," Draco says.
"Well...I shouldn't have insulted you," Harry mutters, distracted by the intensity of Draco's voice.
Draco pulls him closer, just a little, and Harry wonders — his pulse suddenly picking up and rushing along like a crashing wave — if Draco will kiss him.
But he doesn't. He just smiles faintly and says, "Is that an apology?"
"Yes," Harry says, but truth be told he's hardly paying attention to the conversation now. He doesn't think he's ever been this close to Draco and he wonders how he never noticed the faint flecks of slate-blue hiding in his grey irises.
"Then stay," Draco says, and Harry — gaze dropping to Draco's mouth — takes a moment to catch up to the words.
"What?" he asks at last.
"Stay," Draco repeats, letting go of Harry's hand and stepping away. He holds up the keycard. "You were going to leave, weren't you?"
"What?" Harry, suddenly aware that's he staring at Draco and apparently unable to construct coherent sentences, reddens slightly. "Oh. Right. No. I mean, yes."
Draco's faint smile is giving way to clear amusement. "Are you always this articulate when you're tired, Potter?"
Harry seizes upon the excuse with great relief. "Tired. Yes. Suppose I should get some rest."
Draco sets the keycard onto Harry's bedside table. "See you in the morning, then," he says.
"Where are you going?" Harry asks, feeling sudden trepidation.
"I'm going to have a shower," Draco says, picking a folded towel up from the end of the other bed and disappearing into the ensuite.
Harry thinks he'll stay awake for some time, but after he's climbed into bed he finds himself lulled by the sound of the waves, the sound of water humming, and soon he falls asleep.
* * *
He wakes up once, just before dawn. There's a faint grey light filtering through the windows, casting weak shadows through the room. The sun is only just beginning to rise, he thinks.
A few feet away from him, on the other bed, he can see the faint silhouette of Draco sleeping. He's facing away from Harry, curled in on himself as if trying to disappear, and Harry wonders if Draco ever has nightmares about the war.
Harry does, but so does everyone. Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville, all of them. All the people who saw friends and family die before them. All those who heard Voldemort's voice echoing throughout Hogwarts, the place they always considered an untouchable haven. All those who watched the castle crumble around them.
Some people like to talk about the war, some people don't. Harry doesn't. Ron doesn't either, but Hermione does. Ginny tried to speak about it with Harry, but gave up after her initial attempts were met with silence. It had been a point of contention between them for a while: you'll feel better if you'd just talk about it, Ginny had said, and Harry had pointed out, quite calmly, that he did feel better about it. It had happened, and that was that. Yes, of course there were nightmares, but everybody has nightmares. Falling from heights or being chased or dying in unpleasant ways, it's all the same. Everyone fears something.
You were always so terrified of failure.
Maybe Draco dreams of all the times he failed.
And maybe he views it as a failure — running away three years ago — but he came back, and then he ran away again after their argument — but he came back. Four days, but he came back and apologised.
He's trying, Harry thinks. And he's getting better.
And that's the opposite of failure.
* * *
Some time after sunrise, it begins to rain. Even the warmth of summer cannot deter the low clouds rolling in across the grey horizon. Harry goes for an early morning run, a habit leftover from his Auror training. He comes back, slicked with mud and sweat, and takes a hot shower. Draco is still asleep, he thinks, and he goes downstairs to breakfast. Typical that after Draco's returned, it rains. All this nice weather and all he did was walk moodily along cliffs and think of Draco, and now he's finally happy, it's pouring.
When he returns to the room, Draco is dressed and looking out the window, watching the raindrops race each other along the glass pane. Harry is strongly reminded of that day in the apartment, when Draco first spoke to him.
It's a nice view, but this isn't you, is it, Potter? This is nothing. A concrete box in the sky. You need something grounded. Something real.
Maybe the rain isn't so bad, Harry thinks. It reminds him of all those grey winter days and foggy mornings. All those nights driving, driving, with the ghost of Draco beside him.
We could go anywhere.
"You didn't bring me tea," Draco observes, snapping Harry from his reverie.
"Oh, was I supposed to?" Harry's amused.
Draco gives him a look. "No milk, one sugar."
Harry humours him. "All right. Anything else?"
Draco looks startled. "What?"
"Anything else?" Harry repeats, smiling. Draco gives him an annoyed look.
"I thought you'd say something about spoiled Malfoys giving orders," he says. "You're not supposed to agree and smile."
"Oh, I'm so sorry. I'll try to be more predictable," Harry teases, refusing to be drawn into an argument. This is what happened last time, he reminds himself. Both of them taking everything far too seriously and getting defensive over nothing. "Let me guess, now's the part where I storm off and you sulk for hours?"
"I don't sulk. I reflect on my life," Draco says loftily.
"And I don't storm off, I make a strategic departure," Harry says.
Draco glances away, but Harry can see a smile hiding in the corner of his mouth.
It's odd, Harry thinks, how he and Ron always thought hearing Draco apologise would be their moment of victory.
But Harry feels most victorious here and now, watching Draco smile.
* * *
Draco's getting better.
It's a strange thing to think, because Draco wasn't ever sick, Harry thinks. There were never any symptoms, never any illness. But he's getting better somehow.
It's something about the way he watches the rain, and tells Harry that every raindrop has a different diameter. Or the way he decides he wants a nice bottle of wine and drives for half an hour to Helston because he says all the local pubs only have 'watered-down bleach'. And then he changes his mind anyway, and chooses a bottle of twenty-five-year Glenmorangie.
"How much did that cost?" Harry asks as they're driving back to Landewednack.
"The exact price," Draco says, "of your ex-fiancée's engagement ring."
Yes, Harry thinks. Draco is getting better.
* * *
Later in the evening Draco, lying across one of the beds, reads a well-thumbed book entitled Flowers For Algernon. Harry tilts his head and reads the blurb.
"That sounds depressing," he observes. "And boring."
"Thank you, Potter, for that literary criticism. Why don't you run along and finish reading the 'Top Ten Female Players' article in Quidditch Weekly?"
"I do read, you know."
"That's a lie. I'm not counting magazines."
"Well — "
"Or road atlases."
"Fine, but — "
"Or books that other people have left lying around and you've picked them up, skimmed a few paragraphs, and put them back down again."
Harry starts laughing. Draco drops the book and rolls over onto his back, looking up at Harry.
"What's so funny?" he demands.
Harry shakes his head, still laughing. "It's like you know me."
"I know lots of things about you." Draco grins and Harry's heart seems to stutter for a second. It's an...interesting angle, he thinks — him standing by the bed, Draco lying across it grinning up at him — and he's caught between disappointment and relief when Draco sits up and reaches for the book, setting it onto the bedside table.
"Do you?" Harry asks vaguely, still a little distracted.
"I know you're fond of standing on balconies, drinking neat whiskeys," Draco says, picking up the bottle of Glenmorangie next to the book. "Shall we?"
Harry stares at him, all amusement forgotten. "But — you could only see me when I was in your memories, or going through your possessions..."
"Near my possessions, I said. And if I recall correctly, you used to carry my driver's licence around sometimes. And my car keycard was frequently in your pocket."
All those times, standing on the balcony and gazing at the world, and Draco was there with him...
"What else did you see, then?" Harry demands.
"Nothing much, really. You're quite boring. Stand around staring into space a lot."
"Same as you," Harry retorts.
"I suppose we have something in common then." Draco lifts one shoulder in a careless shrug. "Fetch some glasses."
"What am I, the house-elf?"
"I'm not going. Yesterday, when I asked the receptionist if I could book in, she gave me a thirty-minute dissertation on the local walking trails."
"You know, normal people might find that welcoming. That's what locals do. Friendly chats."
"Then off you go, Potter, and have a friendly chat with the endearing locals."
Harry concedes defeat and leaves. He reappears forty minutes later. Draco's smiling.
"Shut up," Harry says.
"I didn't say anything."
"I thought I'd be trapped forever. She kept going on about the native plants along the coastal tracks."
"Did she? How fascinating." Draco takes the glass tumblers from Harry's hands, his fingers brushing fleetingly along Harry's.
"Yes, fascinating," Harry says dryly, watching as Draco sets the glasses down and opens the bottle of Glenmorangie.
"You have it neat, if I recall," Draco says. "I'll take mine on the rocks." He taps his wand against the glass of water on the bedside table, and the water instantly transforms into ice cubes.
"You do know that chilling the whiskey suppresses flavour and aroma?" Harry says conversationally.
Draco pauses halfway through pouring Harry's glass and stares at him.
"What?" Harry asks.
"Sometimes," Draco says, "you can be quite...surprising."
Harry hides a smile as Draco pours two neat whiskeys.
* * *
They stand on the balcony, despite the bruised clouds rolling in across the horizon. The sun has set early, sinking under the weight of rain and grey sky. Harry leans on the railing, glass in one hand, and looks at the churning waves of the ocean.
"Storm's coming," he observes, taking another sip of the Glenmorangie. He waits for an acerbic remark from Draco — really, Potter? How observant of you — but Draco is silent. Harry looks at him. He suits a storm. His pale complexion and white-blond hair seem almost luminescent against the charcoal-grey clouds.
"I like storms," Draco says at last. He looks down at his glass, then downs the rest of it.
"Draco," Harry says quietly, recognising the signs. The abstract way Draco speaks, the way he stares closely at objects.
"The summer storms always felt like coming home."
"Draco," Harry repeats. "This is real."
Draco looks at his empty glass. "I know."
"Do you?"
A pause, then Draco reaches out and takes Harry's hand. "Yes," he says.
Their rule. When you were trapped in time, we couldn't make contact, could we? So this must be real. A simple little strategy. Necessary contact, for the sake of reality. That's all.
Harry's walking a dangerous line and he knows it.
He tightens his grip around Draco's hand as they stand together to watch the storm roll in.
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