Crossing a dream with my old lost car.
It's smell brings the dead memories back.
Crossing a dream.
— Highway of Endless Dreams by M83
~oOo~
Harry sits at the bar, nursing a tumbler of firewhisky, a dark scowl marring his fine features. He had sulked in the kitchen, stewing in his thoughts under Kreacher's watchful eye. Eventually feeling suffocated in his own house, he had Floo'd to the first place he could think of; still wearing his bloodied Auror robes.
Arriving at the Leaky looking as he did, Harry had raised quite a few eyebrows, but the positively frigid atmosphere surrounding him had stopped the questions from coming. He'd noticed a few fellow Aurors, but he chose not to join them, merely offering a nod of acknowledgement, opting instead to sit by himself.
He throws back the rest of his drink and shrugs off his robes, draping it haphazardly over the back of his chair. Sighing, he scrubs his hands roughly over his face, wondering now if he should have Floo'd Ron and asked his best mate to come join him.
"Rough day, Harry?" A soft voice, tentative yet warm, breaks into his reverie.
He looks up, swallowing back an irritated sigh, and manages a strained smile for Hannah Abbott, Neville's fiancée and the current owner of the new and vastly much improved Leaky Cauldron.
Seeing the look on his face, Hannah laughs quietly, refilling Harry's glass. "I'll take that as a resounding yes."
Harry relaxes slightly; his smile turning genuine. "Thanks for not pointing out the fact that I look like utter shite, Hannah."
"Anytime." She beams at him in amusement, resting her elbows onto the bar, settling down for a chat. "No Ron tonight?"
Harry shakes his head, taking a long pull of his drink. "I just needed some space." He gives her a sheepish grin.
"Oh!" Hannah flushes pink, embarrassed. "I'm so sorry, Harry, and here I am bothering you."
Suddenly realising what he just said and feeling like a right arse, Harry's eyes widen. "No! I mean... It's fine—! Er... I could probably use the company—" He stutters lamely, running a hand through his tousled mane. He grimaces when his fingers snag through it. He probably should've taken a quick shower before leaving. He's just now realising that parts of his hair are still matted with Seamus' dried blood. He groans, folding his arms on top of the bar and dropping his head onto them with a thud.
"That bad, huh?" Hannah muses sympathetically, propping both elbows on the countertop, resting her chin in her hands.
A muffled grunt is all Harry could muster as he buries his head deeper into the crook of his arms. He's not even really angry. Although he had seemed like it, he definitely wasn't. It's a defense mechanism he's developed over the years whenever the painful memories of the War reared its ugly head to haunt him. He has taken to falling back into his Undercover Auror Training—turning off his emotions; instinctively assuming a persona vastly different from his own; dissociating himself from whatever feelings that could cloud his judgement, only leaving himself with a clear, rational mind to effectively assess any given situation, no matter how dangerous. Occlumency. It has eventually become easy for him, which is the reason why he's so fucking brilliant at his job. Even Snape would be impressed. Perhaps having Voldemort inside his head for a few years was a blessing in disguise after all.
The War has definitely changed him. The revelations Harry had learned at the end of it had shaken his very foundations. Trust no longer comes easy to him. He had learned, the hard way, that blind faith and reckless courage weren't the only answers to every single problem. Cunning, sometimes, could get your further.
Harry bites back a snort, keeping his eyes closed. He finds it amusing how his long-suppressed Slytherin side is finally getting some much needed exercise.
Speaking of Slytherins, Harry's mind wanders back to Draco and what had happened moments ago that had sent Harry to the Leaky to drown his goddamn sorrows.
The guilt Harry had definitely expected. Even to this day, he has never been able to reconcile himself to the fact that he had almost killed Draco Malfoy. Yes, he'd also saved the prat from Fiendfyre, but that act doesn't erase Harry's sin. It'll always be there in the back of Harry's mind, like a dark stain marring his soul, reminding him of what he is truly capable of.
What Harry hadn't expected though was the hurt—the all-encompassing ache—that had twisted his insides at Draco's words. The conviction in Draco's tone had cut through Harry like a knife, leaving behind a chill that had seeped right into his bones. There's no doubt in Harry's mind that the blond truly believed his own words. It's a bitter potion to swallow knowing how Draco truly feels.
"Fuck." Harry mutters.
He feels more than hears Hannah moving away. Harry doesn't even twitch; too emotionally and physically drained to bother with much else. Harry starts to drift off. In the back of his mind, he vaguely knows he really shouldn't be falling asleep in a pub.
Moments later Hannah is back accompanied by the mouth-watering smell of freshly baked shepherd's pie. Opening his eyes a crack, Harry lifts his head, stomach growling ravenously. He stares at the plate Hannah had placed by his elbow and suddenly realises just how famished he is. He hasn't eaten anything since this morning, when all he'd had was tea and a biscuit right before they left for the raid.
He quirks a lopsided grin at his friend, "Thanks, Hannah." He straightens in his seat, pulling the plate closer. "You're a lifesaver."
"Its on the house." Hannah smiles widely. "I also made treacle tarts." She adds with a wink.
Harry beams at her before shoveling a forkful into his mouth. A muffled groan of delight rumbles deep in his chest as he savors his first bite. He suddenly feels a thousand times better. In his humble opinion, Hannah's cooking is second only to Molly Weasley's and whenever Harry eats a meal at the Leaky, he couldn't help but feel as though he'd come home.
He levels an solemn gaze at Hannah, swallowing as he says with mock seriousness, "Marry me."
Hannah throws back her head and laughs, patting Harry's hand. "You're definitely not the first to proposition me, Harry."
"I certainly won't be the last." Harry chuckles. He motions towards his plate. "Neville's a very lucky man."
"Oh please, he's already complaining that I'm a disaster for his waistline." Hannah snorts, rolling her eyes. "Especially now that he's no longer an Auror."
Harry smiles, shaking his head. "I bet the rather sedate life of a Hogwarts Professor isn't exactly helping his case."
Hannah just shrugs, grinning cheekily. "He doesn't have to Floo home for dinner everyday, mind."
Harry snorts through a mouthful, giving Hannah a look of incredulity. "If I was Neville, I'd Floo home for every meal!"
Hannah chuckles, turning away when a customer at the other end of the bar calls for another pint of mead. As she's about to walk away, Harry reaches out to stop her.
"I'd like a room too... Please." He says quietly, squarely meeting her gaze. "I'll be staying indefinitely."
She gives him a look of surprise, but nods all the same. Harry sighs in relief; grateful that Hannah isn't the type to pry.
After what had happened with Draco, Harry doesn't think he can face the Slytherin any time soon; not to mention the fact that the blond clearly doesn't want him around. With Hermione on the case, Draco is without a doubt in good hands. Harry can just stay the fuck out of their way. It's for the best. Besides, if Hermione needs anything, she knows how to get in touch with him.
Harry sighs wearily, finishing his meal in silence.
* * *
"Sang Impur." Heriome repeats, massaging her tight forehead. She could already feel the beginnings of a pounding headache.
"Yes." Draco stares blankly at the fireplace, unable to meet Hermione's eyes. "It's French for—"
"Impure Blood." Hermione murmurs under her breath, cutting him off.
Draco nods stiffly, closing his eyes. "It is the exact opposite of Toujours Pur... the Black Family motto, which means Always Pure."
"So, its an old Black Family recipe."
"I believe so, yes." Draco replies, tone flat as he fights the urge to snap at Hermione. "The journal seems to have been passed down from generation to generation of Blacks. Somehow, it had ended up in my Mother's possession. More than likely gifted to her by my lovely great-aunt Walburga, when it became apparent that her own sons had failed the family name." Draco say dryly, voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Sirius and Regulus." Hermione murmurs.
Draco inclines his head, but doesn't say much else. He glances at the door, reluctantly wondering where Harry had gone. The house is eerily silent. Kreacher hasn't even come to inform them of dinner, which is rather strange, considering how the ornery house-elf likes to keep to his precious schedule.
"According to what you've told me, the potion magically erases an individual's familial ties to his bloodline. However, it comes at a price." Hermione mutters to herself. "You said that calling the individual by his family name inflicts severe physical injury—" She looks up, giving Draco a pointed look. "—which is what happened when Harry ran into—"
"He didn't just run into me, Granger." Draco retorts scathingly, rolling his eyes. "He was bloody stalking me."
"Also—" Hermione continues loudly, purposely ignoring Draco's outburst as she narrows her eyes at him. "—you mentioned that you believe it had triggered some type of curse, but you're not entirely sure what." She stares at Draco, intently searching his face; her expression inscrutable. "I know you're not telling me everything." Her lips thin into a severe line and Draco is suddenly reminded of McGonagall. "No matter." Hermione tucks a wayward curl behind one ear as she raises an impressive eyebrow at him. "I need to see that journal, Draco."
"I don't have it." Draco replies curtly, keeping his face averted.
"Well, where is it?" Hermione snaps, clearly losing patience.
Draco sighs inwardly, knowing there's no way out of his current predicament. Once Hermione has set her mind to solving a mystery, she's like a bloodhound on the hunt. He also knows he's acting like a prat, which she definitely doesn't deserve. In typical Gryffindor fashion, she's simply trying to save him from himself. He certainly doesn't deserve friends like Hermione Jean Granger.
Draco looks up and gives her a strained yet rueful smile. "I left it at my flat."
Hermione rises to her feet. "Good. We will go and retrieve it tomorrow." She declares firmly; her tone brooks no argument. She straightens her robes, making her way towards the door. "For now, let's go find Harry and have dinner."
As if Summoned, Kreacher suddenly pops into existence in front of Hermione. Scowling, he shoots Draco a venomous glare as he says, "Master Harry is not home. Master Harry has ordered Kreacher to serve dinner once the guests are ready."
"Oh." Hermione bites her lip, furtively casting Draco a nervous glance. "Did he say where he was going, Kreacher?"
Still glaring darkly at Draco, Kreacher replies hoarsely, "Master Harry did not say." The withered house-elf then turns to Hermione. "Dinner is served." And with a loud, angry crack, he is gone.
Kreacher's blatantly antagonistic attitude towards Draco spoke volumes. Hermione suppresses a smile, finding the elf's over protectiveness of Harry quite amusing. Years ago, she would never have thought that that was even possible, considering how much Kreacher had disliked Harry back then. She glances at Draco and her amusement immediately fizzles away.
Draco smoothly rises from the couch, shoving his hands into his pockets to hide their trembling. He inhales deeply, valiantly ignoring the sharp ache in his chest. He attempts to school his expression into one of blank indifference, but he knows he fails spectacularly when Hermione rushes over to him.
"Draco—" She gently touches his arm; eyes bright and intent as she studies him. "I'll talk to Harry. It'll be alright."
Draco just shakes his head, blinking rapidly, quickly looking away. He suddenly feels too exposed.
Harry left.
Even though this is exactly what he wanted, Draco couldn't help but feel as though he'd lost something incredibly vital. It's ridiculous, really, since there had been nothing there to lose. He and Harry are nothing to one another. They can't even be considered friends. To Harry, Draco is nothing more than an unwanted houseguest.
You're a fool. Draco berates himself, helplessly angry. He knows he's just making excuses to lessen the pain.
Over the past few days he'd lived with Harry, Draco had felt something shift between them. He often wondered if Harry had felt it too. Whatever there was between them was tenuous at best, but it was there nonetheless. Draco could see it, sense it, in the way Harry smiled or laughed; even in the way Harry sometimes looked at him.
The light and teasing atmosphere that had slowly developed between them is nothing at all like the hostile interactions they'd once had as teenagers. They had managed to talk without throwing insults or hexes at one another. They were finally getting to know one another.
It made Draco hope.
Its not meant to be. Draco tells himself firmly, drawing himself to his full height; his back ramrod straight. He won't allow himself to wallow in self-pity. He may no longer be a Malfoy, but he still has his pride and dignity.
He knows holding on to his feelings for Harry is a pointless endeavor. Nothing would ever come of it. Harry is who he is—the Saviour of the Wizarding World; the epitome of all that is good and noble. Draco, on the other hand, is an Ex-Death Eater; reviled and hated by the public.
It's time he awoke from this endless dream and let go.