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Smoke Among the Stars	By : WinterRaven Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 7476 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to the Harry Potter universe. I make no profit from this story.

Chapter List
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“The angels wait for us to pause during the most ordinary days.” –Sherman Alexie

Chapter Two - The Return

How he managed to do anything properly in his haze of anger and irritation, Harry did not know. He found himself at the Leaky Cauldron in Diagon Alley merely hours after leaving the Weasleys. As he negotiated with the bartender over the price of rent he wondered if this was one of his worst birthdays. In some ways, he realized miserably, it was. In his flying rage, he had likely pushed away the people that knew him and supported him best. He would still have to deal with them sooner or later, would have to deal with Ginny and her expectations, their anger and confusion. He couldn’t run away forever.

But as he followed the old bartender up two sets of winding, thin stairs and entered into his flat on the top floor of the bar, stared around its simple layout, Harry couldn’t help but think this day had turned out decently after all. He ignored the funny look the bartender gave him before leaving, as if openly curious why Harry was alone on his birthday—he was famous after all—but he left with a toothless grin and ambled away back down to the main floor.

Harry closed the door behind him and levitated his trunk and belongings into the foyer. His stay at the Leaky Cauldron might only be temporary (he had no idea where he would go next) but he was glad to know it would be comfortable. It would be alone; he wouldn’t be heckled or bothered. He thanked the heavens as he explored the space; it was small, but cozy in a way Harry had never experienced. It was uncluttered, clean, with three rooms—a sitting area with a kitchen, a worn wooden table, a squishy sofa and bookcases overflowing with literature; a tiny bedroom, perfect for one and a bathroom with big, open windows facing Diagon Alley, filtering in the sounds and disconnected laughs and chatter from the street below.

“Happy birthday to me,” Harry whispered under his breath. He went to the largest window in the sitting room and leaned over the ledge, staring two stories down at the passerby below, stared down at the people who didn’t know they were being watched.

But his bliss was short-lived. At first, Harry merely closed his eyes and allowed the warm breeze to brush over him, to waft enticing smells from restaurants his way. He smiled softly hearing the people below, so close yet far enough. But soon, he had to brush away the sour feeling of guilt as it crept back into his consciousness—remembering Ginny’s tear streaked face as he summoned the Knight Bus, Ron and Hermione’s confused, hurt looks. Harry had a hard time realizing that had only happened a few hours ago.

He had a more difficult time wrapping his mind around Draco Malfoy.

The blonde made another unwelcome appearance in Harry’s mind as he brooded and Harry pursed his lips together, frustrated and disturbed at how fiercely those memories impacted him. They were disturbing memories, there was no doubt about that—seeing Draco’s drawn and sickly face burned in his mind’s eye, knowing that everyone had suffered tremendously in the past year, not just those working against Voldemort—but did those memories warrant his heart rate spiking as though he had just run a race? Did they mean that Harry should be flushed and uncomfortable? What about earlier that day, when his body had reacted in the strangest way, with arousal?

As he walked away from the window and crashed into his new bed, Harry attributed his earlier reaction to stress. He wanted to pretend it was nothing more than that and chose to brush off another, separate memory of Draco smiling—a big, toothy grin.

Harry sighed and stared up at the ceiling. He did not move for hours as the day passed quickly, as the room grew darker with impending night.

Malfoy.

Harry wondered where he was now. He had not seen the blonde since the night the war ended, the night Harry defeated Voldemort all those weeks ago. That night was almost a blur to him and he could only remember the feeling, the confusion, loudness, the bloodshed and exhaustion, his body pushed to the limit of endurance. He briefly recalled seeing Draco and his parents huddled in the Great Hall after Voldemort’s defeat, the three in a corner and alone. But what happened to them after? Harry did not know.

So much had changed since then; so much had been bursting through the newspapers, so much commotion over ex-Death Eaters being tried and sentenced and punished. With a jolt, Harry realized he had heard nothing of the Malfoys, neither the parents nor Draco.

Maybe they're dead. Maybe he’s dead.

Harry sighed. Yes, after all the madness that had occurred in the past year, he wouldn’t be surprised if that were the truth after all.

~*~

His dreams that night were tormented. Harry found himself walking through a ruined battlefield, the crumbling façade of Hogwarts somewhere to the front of his vision; and he was pacing quickly, trying to find something, someone. A person. A victim.

The smells of the place suddenly came to him and he heard screaming, wailing. There were flashes of light bouncing about, crashing into brick and stone and bodies, breaking and shattering everything. Harry ducked, dodged a green spell aimed at him and broke into a run, hopping over rubble and arms and legs, knocking through the clusters of people dueling, breaking from the stench of sweat and fear.

I have to find him.

He was sprinting now up the long lawn to the front of the castle. Even in the veil of night, the destruction was obvious. The looming towers were broken clean in half and were crackling with huge fires and yells. The entrance hall was a mess—stairs crumbled, portraits destroyed but it was the stench, the stench, that assaulted him, prickled animalistic fright within him because it was the smell of the burnt and the rotting.

And he wasn’t running from Voldemort. He wasn’t running from the enemy. He was searching for one. Please don’t be dead.

Harry climbed the broken stairs like a dog, forcing himself to go higher and higher despite his brain screaming to stop, to slow down; he flew through deserted passageways, slipping over blood and grime and other bodies until he stopped suddenly near his common room.

There he was. Him. He was leaning against the empty portrait of the Fat Lady, as if hoping to sink through into the common room behind it and his pale hands were running up its frame, almost caressing.

“You’re okay,” Harry rasped to the figure, his voice echoing violently off the walls.

And Draco turned around, his eyes shining, his face covered in soot and ash and something else, some expression Harry could not understand.

“Did you think I was dead?” the blonde asked.

Dead? Dead?

KNOCK.

Harry sat bolt upright, grabbing his wand on instinct, fumbling out of his bed in the Leaky Cauldron so quickly that he nearly sprained his ankle in the process. It was a little after dawn, he noticed quickly, staring out the window at the rising sun.

Bang.

Someone was knocking and it took Harry a few minutes of wild heartbeat and fear to realize that there couldn’t be any danger. It was just a dream; it was a dream and the war was over. He gathered his breath in his lungs and tried to steady himself; he pulled the fabric of his old clothes smooth and sighed as the person knocked on the door to his flat again. Perhaps it was the bartender, asking around if he wanted breakfast. Harry sighed, annoyed at the inconvenience as he moved through the sitting area.

As he walked he thought of the dream, of trying to find Draco. What does this all mean?

Frustrated and remembering the piercing look in Draco's eyes, he wrenched the front door open. He wasn’t met with the bartender but with someone else's gruff words, “We need to talk.”

Harry stared into the hall, disbelieving. Before him stood Ron and Hermione.

They didn’t ask to come in but stomped through the foyer as though invited. Ron brushed past Harry with harshness. Harry felt a tickling numbness spreading through him as he turned slowly to face his two friends. They had seated themselves on the solitary sofa, sinking down on the cushions. Harry noticed they had traveling bags with them, as if they were intending to stay somewhere for weeks.

“Er,” Harry said stupidly.

“You can start by shutting the door,” Hermione suggested but she did not sound angry. She gave Harry a soft smile and Harry took her in for a moment, her kind gaze, her big brown eyes.

Feeling immense apprehension, Harry did as she said. He did not move from the doorway. He watched as Ron fidgeted with his black jacket, removing it and placing it behind him. His red hair enflamed the room, the brightest color in the space, and his face was tan and freckly. His eyes found Harry’s.

“We thought we should play it safe and come to you early, just in case you decided to go for a stroll during the day,” Ron said matter-of-factly. He cleared his throat and adjusted his blue sweatshirt, coming to rest his hands over his dark jeans.

“Look—” Harry started but Ron cut him off.

“All I want to know is, why did you have to leave like that?” Ron asked.

“Like what?” Harry said back.

“You know what I mean.” And there was a trace of impatience in Ron’s voice. “You just stormed out of the house.”

Harry looked away, the guilt gushing back.

“I needed space,” he whispered, feeling foolish, like a child being chastised.

“We know,” came Hermione’s voice and Harry glanced over at her. She was leaning forward, her elbows on her knees, looking at Harry imploringly. “We aren’t angry—”

“But we just wanted to know,” Ron finished. He sat back, stretching his arm around Hermione’s shoulders.

“Well, now you know the truth,” Harry said in a flat way. “I wanted to be on my own. I needed to be alone.”

“Is that why you broke it off with Ginny?” Ron asked.

The tension in the room suddenly rose, hot and thick and Harry and Ron did not break eye contact.

“I don’t love her,” Harry said bluntly. He felt as though his heart had jumped into his throat. “I don’t think I ever did.”

Ron did not respond; Hermione was glancing back and forth between the two as if worried they would begin a fistfight.

“I’m sorry that she thought otherwise,” Harry whispered, crossing his arms. “I never meant to lead her on but… but I’m not going to fake my feelings for her or for anyone.”

“I think that’s fair,” Hermione said quietly.

Ron’s lips pursed together and Harry waited with bated breath for his best friend to speak.

“It is,” was all the redhead said. He gave a deep sigh.

“So… you aren’t pissed off at me or anything?” Harry asked.

“Not anymore,” Ron said ruefully, giving Harry a small slice of a smile. “I was. But I wanted to hear your side of it.”

“And now?” Harry asked slowly, trying to make himself more comfortable with the situation, to adjust to the fact that Ron and Hermione were on his sofa, watching him carefully, speaking to him; that everything seemed okay between them despite his poor behavior and bad attitude.

“Now?” Ron repeated, suddenly yawning. “Now I think we go to bed.”

Harry snorted and looked away.

“Maybe they’re serving breakfast downstairs. We can get coffee,” Harry said, turning back to his friends. “As for a bed… there’s only one.” He paused, glancing at their bags. “Were you intending to stay with me?”

“Actually,” Hermione said, “Not quite.”

“Yeah, there’s something else,” Ron interjected and Harry felt his heart spike again. Could it be that he was wrong, that they were angry at him, that they came to yell at him about his faults, his strange behavior those past few weeks?

“Well?” Harry whispered, nervous and agitated and tired.

Ron and Hermione gave each other a quick look before Hermione pulled something out of her jacket pocket. Harry noticed it was an envelope, folded in half. She unfolded it and extracted a letter but before she started to read it, Harry cut in, curiosity getting the better of him.

“What is that?” he asked.

“It's from Hogwarts,” Hermione whispered, her eyes shining with elation. “It's an invitation... This one’s yours. It’s…how we figured out where you were staying, actually. Has your name and address on it.”

Harry blinked, not understanding.

“You see,” Hermione continued, glancing at Ron again before clearing her throat. “Apparently, the school is being rebuilt. We’ve all received invitations to go back as eighth years to finish our education.”

“Are you serious?” Harry whispered, now moving out of the foyer, walking briskly to his friends. He could hardly believe those words—after weeks of trying to figure out what to do with himself, what kind of life he was supposed to have after the war, the answer stood before him. The simple answer, the right answer.

“Totally serious mate,” Ron responded, his arm still around Hermione. “We’re going back.”

“We wanted to ask if you would be too,” Hermione said, her voice soft. She passed Harry his letter when he got to them and he took it with slightly trembling hands.

He stared at the envelope, thick and heavy in his palms; he ran his fingers over the dark ink on the front, brushed over his name and address: To Mr. Harry Potter, Room 38, The Leaky Cauldron, London; he yanked the letter out and his eyes roamed the paper greedily, running over the invitation, the prospect of continuing what he thought he had lost, the prospect of doing something normal.

He felt overwhelmed with happiness and nervousness. His heart was jumping.

“McGonagall’s the Headmistress,” Harry whispered absently, staring at her scrawled signature at the bottom.

“Yeah,” Ron said quietly. “Fucking brilliant, really.”

“So what do you think?” Hermione asked.

And Harry glanced up at his friends, only one thing on his mind. He imagined himself sitting in classes again, learning, being distracted by books and too much homework instead of his flying thoughts; he imagined himself dining in the Great Hall every day, walking on the lawn with his two best friends but also walking alone, rediscovering Hogwarts in solitude, biding his time as he figured out his life, where to go next…

“Of course I’m going back,” Harry murmured and his face broke into a long lost smile.

He clutched the letter tightly, as if hoping it would transport him to the school right then and there; and he closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the fact that he would be returning to the one place he knew as home.

I can find peace there.

He’d soon discover how very wrong he was.

TBC

A/N: Much thanks to unneeded, ChaosLady and Akira_Kushrenda_Meriquize for the reviews! Critiques and comments are always welcome.
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Smoke Among the Stars