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Smoke Among the Stars	By : WinterRaven Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 7475 -:- 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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A/N: Yes, I’m working on this story and Endurance at the same time. I wanted to wait until I finished Endurance, but I’ve caught the writing bug! This story won’t be long; probably ten chapters at the most. This takes place directly after the events in DH. I’ll try to update this and Endurance frequently. Enjoy and comments are always welcome.

“Let me remember you as you were before you existed.” –Pablo Neurda

Chapter One – Aftermath

It was the night before Harry’s eighteenth birthday. He felt foolish. Could he really have expected to readjust so quickly? Fall back into a life filled with calm and bliss? How could he have thought this would be simple, so easy and uncomplicated, to live a life he wasn’t used to?

It took him weeks after the war to realize the truth; it hit him this very moment, this rare moment when he was entirely alone, his arms wrapped around his knees. He was staring out of a window, admiring a dark garden below in the still evening. And he realized he had never known peace. In all his time alive, he had only known loss and violence and fear. Now he was expected to live a life without any of those things, live a life without the constant worry of death, of his own, of others. The lack of turmoil made him feel strangely empty, hollow and confused.

He had holed himself up in Ron’s room to think; everyone else was downstairs, the Weasley’s Burrow bursting with more people than it could handle. They were all reunited after the war and since Harry had nowhere to turn with the Dursley’s gone forever, he was taken in as the hero, the savior, the surrogate son to the family. The Weasley’s treated him with respect and reverence, something he wasn’t used to and something he was beginning to resent. It made him uncomfortable that they wanted him to live in their home so badly, practically begged him to stay; he wished many, many days that he could leave and be solitary, buy himself a place on Diagon Alley, have time and space to fully comprehend this numb feeling slipping through his brain and his fingers and bones.

He felt a sense of dread thinking about the coming day, about the barrage of people and noise and useless chatter that awaited him. Inevitably, the Weasley’s would throw him a massive party but it wouldn’t end there. No, Harry knew there would be a celebration throughout the Wizarding world—he was practically worshipped now. He had morphed from ‘The Chosen One’ into some sort of perverse idol, some god. He was the one instrumental in defeating Voldemort, he was the one who brought his world from darkness into light and this meant being honored so much it made him nauseous.

All he had ever wanted was to feel normal, be normal. He wanted to feel happiness, elation. Not aggravation, annoyance, frustration. Why was it that he felt so harassed all the time? Was it the fact that he truly could not go anywhere anymore without being stopped, accosted, praised in public? How many times had that happened recently? He barely had a moment to take a deep breath. And he hardly had privacy in the Burrow either, with Mrs. Weasley constantly fussing over him, with Ron and Hermione’s presence, with the subtle pressures he felt from Ginny, the hungry look in her sharp eyes.

She wanted him back. She had been waiting.

He had to admit that for a long time during the war, all he could think about was her, with those lonely nights camping out in that sad little tent with Ron and Hermione, during those cold evenings curled against a lumpy pillow, during those days when he thought death was waiting for him around the next corner, it was Ginny that sustained him. Ginny and their brief love affair during sixth year was his one link to normalcy; he held on to it tightly, obsessed over it every day, obsessed about it as much as he had with the Horcruxes. He had wanted it so badly then, to be like every other teenager, to let himself be taken with his hormones and his lust and not have to worry about anything else; he wanted to be distracted, he didn’t want his responsibilities and he didn’t want the expectations he was supposed to fulfill.

But with Voldemort gone now, with the Wizarding world rebuilding itself slowly but surely, there was nothing to be distracted from anymore. There was a general calm that spread throughout London; fleeing Death Eaters had been caught, arrested, killed or sent to Azkaban; the Ministry of Magic had reformed and was running as smoothly as ever; businesses were back up and booming; things were returning, one day at a time, to the way they had been before Voldemort took over. Everyone felt safe and because Harry did too, he didn’t see much use for Ginny anymore. He felt terrible guilt knowing this truth, felt so bad that he locked himself away from her and her family whenever he had the chance. He couldn’t tell her he didn’t want her. He couldn’t let her down like that, her family, his best friend.

He still had obligations. He couldn’t ever truly be free, could he?

~*~

The morning of his birthday dawned crisp and clear. Harry had curled up on a spare mattress on the floor sometime in the night, overcome with the urge to sleep, the need to forget his brooding thoughts and irritations. He hoped, as he gave a wide yawn and sat up, that he would be in a more pleasant mood somehow, that merely thinking about how frustrated he was would make the feeling go away.

But one glance over at Ron’s bed—Ron’s bed occupied with a slumbering Hermione too—caused some inexplicable rage to burst into Harry’s chest. After months together on wild missions, on the run from Voldemort, on their quest to destroy him, Harry could not stand the sight of his two best friends. He never wanted them to be permanently attached like this, and it amazed him that neither seemed to be perturbed by their constant togetherness.

Fuck.

He needed space.

He needed to wake up in a room where other people didn’t come in the night; he needed to be able to walk around alone and cook for himself, clean for himself, read when he wanted to, listen to music as loud as he desired and not have to worry about keeping up appearances or affects. He was tired of this; he would have to leave, somehow, and soon.

Maybe today.

Harry extracted himself from the mattress on the floor, threw off the sheets around him and put his glasses on his face. He stood up and tip-toed from the room, but before he could make his way out of the door, he caught his reflection a mirror; sunlight was pouring in through the little window in the corner, illuminating Harry’s pale skin and tired eyes, focusing on the dark circles beneath him, circles so black it looked as though he had been punched twice. His skin was wan and unhealthy—he hadn’t been taking care of himself at all—and stubble surrounded his cheeks and his hair was in desperate need of a trim.

What a mess, Harry thought about his appearance as he tore his gaze away from the mirror, from the hollow reflection peering back at him. Something had to change.

~*~

And the day went. Harry hoped that morning as he entered the kitchen, that no one would be awake, but he was met with a barrage of birthday wishes almost instantly. Mrs. Weasley forced him to consume vast amounts of eggs and bacon and sausage that would hurt a normal body; Mr. Weasley assaulted him with questions and remarked that quite a few guests would be arriving later that day; and Ginny sat smiling at him from the end of the dining table, watching him closely as she brushed her lush, red hair from her face.

Harry merely nodded and gave one-word answers, tried to hide the dead look in his eyes—he didn’t want to give himself away yet. He didn’t want to hurt their feelings, as frustrated as he was. Harry knew they were trying their best to make him comfortable and happy. It wasn’t their fault that he felt as though he were about to implode.

No, it’s mine.

After too long at the table, he managed to extract himself from them with a hasty excuse.

“I want to go for a walk,” Harry said, pulling himself up from the chair and putting his dirty plates in the sink. “Thanks for breakfast, Mrs. Weasley.”

“No problem dear,” she remarked, eyeing him carefully. “But it might be a little early for a walk, you know—”

“I insist,” was all Harry said as he turned from the table and practically ran to the door. All three pairs of eyes watched him go, confused and worried.

But as he pushed the back door open, felt the cold morning air smack his face, Harry felt a slight tremor of elation. He waltzed out into the garden, his slippers soaking in the dew on the grass, the wetness seeping to Harry’s toes. He wrapped his arms around himself, the fabric of his flannel pajamas not enough to keep the nippy morning coolness from causing him to shiver. Harry walked as far as he could from the Burrow, spent almost half an hour moving continuously until he stopped by a small stream.

He sat down on the grass and let the wind blow over him, closing his eyes. The sun was on his face, warming him, the quiet around him exactly what he needed. And Harry wished he could have sat out there forever.

Until he was interrupted.

“Hey,” came a soft voice, a voice Harry knew too well, a voice he did not want to deal with.

His eyes opened and his head snapped around. Ginny was standing some feet behind him, dressed in a green sweater and jeans. She was holding two mugs of steaming tea, peering down at Harry kindly. Harry felt the balloon of happiness pop within him and he didn’t realize he was frowning at her.

“May I sit?” she asked, cocking her head to the side.

“Sure,” came Harry’s stiff response.

He ran his hand over his face, trying to halt his frustration but how could he? It seemed Ginny always did this—whenever he disappeared somewhere, she would find him, try to talk to him and give up after a while, only to repeat the same pattern the next day, and the next day, and the next.

And Harry was sick of it.

She tried putting the mug in his hands but he did not take it. He was staring ahead.

“You don’t look too happy considering it’s your birthday,” Ginny remarked; her voice was even and calm, not betraying her inner confusion and unease.

“I guess,” was all Harry said. He bit back some swears; he had to control himself. It isn’t her fault you feel this way, he reminded himself as he made quick eye contact with her.

Her blue eyes were shining in the sun. Harry sighed; she was very beautiful, with her milky skin and supple form, the way her hips curved as she sat cross-legged, the way she seemed to have fiery grace about her. But Harry wasn’t attracted to her anymore. He questioned if he had ever been and again, the guilt ate at him.

“What’s wrong?” Ginny pressed, taking Harry’s cup from his side and moving it toward the stream. There was only the sound of rushing water before them.

It took Harry a moment to realize that Ginny had moved so they were practically knee to knee. He felt immense discomfort reign within him. He recoiled as though he had been burned.

“I—I just need space,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. He wondered why he felt so guilty declaring this. Wasn’t it natural that he wanted to be alone? Did this desire really make him terrible or ungrateful?

“Oh,” Ginny breathed, shaking her head so her long hair flew about her. “I was thinking that I could help you with that.”

Harry closed his eyes and unconsciously turned his lips away from hers. He had the feeling he knew what she was trying to do. He stiffened as he felt her hand on his knee, as he felt her body suddenly over his, her legs balancing against his own, her hands exploring his rising and falling chest. Harry could feel the softness of her breasts against his heart and he opened his eyes slowly. Their gazes locked.

“I—” Harry started but she smothered his lips with her own.

He felt her tongue try to push against his and his mouth opened automatically; her hands were on him, forcing him down to the ground so he was on his back and she was on top of him, roaming against him like an unleashed animal. Harry’s senses were assaulted with her smell, her taste, her feel. She groaned against him, and Harry knew deep within him that the sound of a woman so wanton would send any normal man into a frenzy of lust and need, no matter how much of a difficult time he was having in his life…

But not him. No.

Harry tried to enjoy this, tried to force himself to grow aroused. He tried kissing her back, tried to mimic her passion, but there was nothing there. There was no love, no infatuation. There wasn’t even a sexual attraction. His mind was whirring, confused and uncertain—What was wrong with him? Random images were dancing before him and he tried to latch onto each one in his attempt to have the proper reaction. But Ginny didn’t seem to notice his lack of hardness. She didn’t seem to care until—

Harry gave a loud gasp from underneath her and nearly threw her off him; she went falling over with a little screech. Harry’s breathing was suddenly wild and ragged, like he had run a race, and he could feel something stirring within him, definitely in his groin but it wasn’t because of her. His face was flushed red with embarrassment as the image burned back into his mind, loud and clear—a pair of desperate crystal gray eyes boring into his, the feel of needy hands clinging on to his waist as Harry flew them to safety, both their bodies pressed together as they zoomed from the Room of Requirement all those weeks ago…

How could it be that it wasn’t Ginny that cause some semblance of arousal in him, but the sudden image of his former enemy? That slicked blonde hair, that piercing gaze—

“I can’t do this anymore,” Harry confessed, his voice rough and gravel.

Ginny stared him in shock, her mouth hanging open.

Harry was trembling as he forced himself to stand up. She remained on the grass, huddled and mortified.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, looking down at her as he tried to master his wild heartbeat. “This isn’t going to work out between us. I’m just… I’m not attracted to you. I’m sorry, Ginny.”

“You’re not attracted to me,” she repeated back in a hollow voice. Harry felt sickened when he noticed there were tears in her big eyes. “If you’re not attracted to me, why did you want me so badly when we were at school? What about last year?”

“I…” Harry took a deep breath in. “I wasn’t in my right mind… I was trying to fight Voldemort. I was trying to win a war. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

Ginny gave a harsh, cold laugh from below. She was shaking her head again in disbelief and disgust.

“And you wait until now to say something?”

“I’m sorry,” Harry repeated again; the words felt lame and useless and he stifled another gasp as an image of Draco came into his head again. What the hell was going on? “I need space—”

“The hell you do!” she yelled, jumping to her feet. Harry closed his eyes at her brazen figure, her angered, flushed face. “All these weeks, there I was thinking we could have something—”

“That’s not my fault, is it?” Harry snapped back, his eyes flying open in poorly contained anger. “It’s not my fault you projected attraction on to me. It’s not my fault that you wanted something more!”

Ginny’s mouth open and closed. She looked suddenly lost, like a child and she whispered, “I thought you and I could have had a future together.”

“You thought wrong,” Harry responded, unapologetic. “Is that why your parents have housed me all this time? Because you all thought I’d be asking you to marry me or something?”

Ginny glared at him but the flash in her eyes gave away her true feelings.

“Of course it isn’t—”

But it was Harry’s turn to laugh; he was surprised at how cruel his mirth sounded. He reminded himself of Draco Malfoy for a moment and cringed inwardly.

“I suggest we all try to move on with our lives,” Harry said, cutting her off. “I’m leaving today and you probably won’t see me again for a while. Just… just move forward, meet other people, get on with your life.”

And Harry turned around without giving her a chance to respond. He had said what he needed to say; he ignored the sound of her broken sob and cursed himself at his coldness, cursed himself as he stomped back up the long, sloping lawn into the Burrow, cursed himself as he told Mr. and Mrs. Weasley he was leaving that day, that moment, that hour. He ignored everyone’s protests, Ron and Hermione’s as he woke them while packing his things into his trunk furiously, ignored Ginny when she had returned, her eyes swollen and bloodshot.

He ignored them all but before he left, promised his two best friends he would explain everything at some point soon. As soon as he understood these feelings himself. But in those moments, Harry could not look back. He had to start doing things for himself, he had to start doing them alone; it didn’t matter how many people he hurt and confused in the process. He could not keep up this charade.

He had to be his own man now.

TBC
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Smoke Among the Stars