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Blue Skies

Chapter 6

Notes:

Last one, you guys! Enjoy!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The next couple of months are, quite frankly, shit. He moves back in with the Weasleys for a week or so, but with everyone preparing for the wedding, he knows he’s only getting in the way. He stays at Blaise’s flat instead – on his own, because Blaise is spending his summer in Italy, visiting relatives. He’s invited Draco along, but Draco prefers to stay in London, drink wine and feel sorry for himself. Look, he’s not proud of it.

At Bill and Fleur’s wedding reception, which he spends ignoring Potter like it’s the good old times, someone taps him on the shoulder. He turns, ready to snap at whichever Weasley is disturbing his wallowing, only to promptly shut up.

The man in front of him is, definitely, a Weasley. His red hair is tied in a little bun, which should look ridiculous but doesn’t, somehow. He’s freckled and tanned, and he is also undeniably fit. He’s rolled up his shirt sleeves, revealing muscular arms littered with old burns and pale scars.

“You’re Charlie Weasley,” Draco says.

Charlie grins, unabashed. “And you’re Draco Malfoy. I’ve heard a lot about you. Mostly I’ve heard that you’ve got a bit of a crush. There’s no need to be embarrassed. I get that a lot.”

“I’m going to murder your brother.”

One of the guests flinches away in horror, which is just bloody typical. He hasn’t even spoken to his family in a year, and still they’re treating him like a Death Eater in disguise.

Charlie, on the other hand, seems to find this hilarious. “Quite the reputation you’ve got there.”

“I assure you, it’s entirely undeserved,” Draco mutters. “I stopped being useful to my family years ago.”

At the other end of the room, he sees Granger talking to someone who is very obviously Potter in disguise. Their eyes meet; Draco hastily looks away again, only to find that Charlie is studying him with a thoughtful expression on his face.

“You know,” he starts, “I-“

“If you’re going to make another joke about crushes, you’ll live to regret it,” Draco snaps. Another nearby guest startles so badly that she drops her fork.

“I would never,” Charlie promises solemnly, mimicking zipping his lips and throwing away the key. “I was planning to make a suggestion, though. Is that allowed with His Highness? Or am I going to be drawn and quartered?”

Draco sighs. “Go for it.”

“After this whole wedding business is done, I’m going back to Romania. I’m working at a dragon sanctuary there, and doing Order business besides. I could use a hand, and from what I’ve heard, you aren’t that keen to stay in England right now, what with being hunted by Death Eaters and all.”

Romania. Draco has always dreamed of going to France, but he’s never imagined himself in Romania before.

But Charlie Weasley seems perfectly nice, France is crawling with Death Eaters by all accounts…and there’s nothing left in England for him anymore.

He gives a single, sharp nod. “Alright.”

“Splendid.” Charlie grins again. “I’ll come find you, then. Pack light.”

Charlie disappears into the crowd, and a minute later, he’s leading his brand-new sister-in-law to the dance floor. Other couples join, including Ginny and Viktor Krum, but Draco stays where he is. He keeps glancing over at Potter. They haven’t talked since Potter broke up with him.

Now, Potter awkwardly waves at him. Draco pointedly looks away.

Perhaps in Romania, he can finally move on.

*

The first letter arrives two days after he first arrived at the sanctuary. He’s sitting on his narrow bed, trying to bandage the newly-acquired burn on his arm, when an owl knocks on his window with its beak. It’s tiny and carrying a letter twice its size.

What on earth could Ron Weasley be writing him for, Draco thinks as he takes the envelope. But it turns out that it’s not from Ron after all. It’s from Ginny (“I borrowed Pigwidgeon while Ron’s gone, if he dies it’s mine now”), asking a perfunctory question about how he’s doing before launching into a three-pages long complaint about her brothers, Fleur, and her O.W.L. results.

Draco replies immediately, if only to get Weasley’s stupid owl out of his bedroom as soon as possible, and the day after that, two more owls arrive, one from Theo and one from Blaise, complaining that he apparently left for Romania without saying goodbye first (Theo) and suggesting that now that Potter’s broken up with him, Draco should totally allow himself to be set up with someone (Blaise).

Draco apologises to Theo and, and just as he’s busy wording a ‘fuck you’ to Blaise, yet another owl flies straight into his room, bounces off the wall, falls to the floor, then drowsily gets up to deposit two letters in his lap, courtesy of Arthur and Molly Weasley.

“It’s like an owlery in your room. I can’t believe my family is writing to you more than they’re writing to me,” Charlie complains a few days later, although he doesn’t look too unhappy about it. “Pass me that rope, will you?”

Draco passes him the rope, and while Charlie is struggling with an unruly Longhorn, he says, “I didn’t ask them to write to me. Your mother keeps asking if you’re feeding me, like I’m some- some-“

“Dragon?” Charlie asks, snorting. “You’ve certainly got enough fire for it- wait, no, I didn’t mean you-“ He ducks just in time not to have his eyebrows singed, and Draco starts laughing and doesn’t stop for a while.

As much as he hates to admit it, it’s kind of nice, having this many people reaching out to him. He thinks back to his first months at Hogwarts, remembers the crippling feeling of not being good enough, of being completely and utterly alone in this world, of some random girl in fifth year being the only one who ever talked to him.

It's a startling realisation that this is no longer the case. He’s got friends now, in his house and outside of it, he’s got people who care about him, he’s got a life. Potter might be out there fighting the good fight, but Draco realises that even if they never talked again, he’d survive. He wouldn’t like it. But he’d survive. More than that: he would live.

Somehow, it’s that epiphany that makes him send the letter.

He rewrites it several times, not quite knowing what to say. In the end, he ends up writing only a few words.

Blaise wants to set me up with one of his friends. I hope Voldemort kills me first.
- D.

The answer arrives a week later, not signed, and when it does, Draco lets out a surprised laugh.

Ron swore up and down that you’d be busy shagging Charlie by now. I’ll let him know he’s wrong.

He doesn’t mean to reply, but then, when he’s finished sending his latest letter to Ginny, he ends up replying, anyway, and Potter answers promptly. From that point on, it’s like a dam broke. They never exchange personal information, Draco never signs his name again, not even with his initials, and neither of them ever ask the other about where they are or what they’re doing. But once a week without fail, an owl arrives with a letter from Potter, nibbling snacks and trying to pick at Draco’s hair while he drafts a reply. It’s not Hedwig, the owl Potter’s had for all the years Draco’s known him, and Draco notices this but doesn’t ask about that, either.

At Christmas, a few of Charlie’s friends come to the sanctuary for a visit. They don’t exchange any gifts, but they drink wine, and Jasper, Finn and Glenn entertain him with stories about their adventures with Charlie, not all of them flattering.

“It’s like you’re trying to make me look bad in front of Draco,” Charlie complains, but he’s smiling as he says it, eyes twinkling.

Jasper and Finn went to school with Charlie, and while they’re reminiscing about winning the House Cup in their last year, Draco and Glenn disappear outside to have a smoke. Glenn is a couple of years younger than the rest of them, closer to Draco’s age than Charlie’s, and apparently they met after almost getting arrested for separately trying to rescue a dragon from a circus in Portugal.

“Want one?” Glenn asks, and Draco accepts the proffered cigarette without hesitation. He’s never smoked before, but he supposes now is as good a time as any to start.

He promptly breaks out into a coughing fit, and when Glenn is done laughing at him, they stand there in silence for a while, smoking and looking out onto the enclosure, where one of the dragons has just woken up and is now looking for food.

“Charlie told us you’re planning to stay here for a while,” Glenn says. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t seem the type to spend the rest of your life at a dragon sanctuary.”

Draco shrugs. “I’ve got nowhere else to go.”

“Me and the lads, we’re always looking for help. Jasper was actually friends with Bill, first – that’s Charlie’s big brother –, and they worked in Egypt as curse breakers for a while. We’ve thought about going back. Not everywhere in this world has been invaded by Death Eaters.”

“Not yet, anyway,” Draco drawls. He throws Glenn a sideways look, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you were a curse breaker. Charlie said you work with dragons, too.”

“Oh, I do a bit of everything. I don’t like to limit myself.” Glenn winks at him.  

There’s an invitation there, Draco knows. A possibility. Certainly a way to brighten Christmas Eve. He’s almost tempted to go for it. But then he thinks of Potter, of his next letter that’s due in a few days, and suddenly he can’t. He wishes he could, but he can’t.

Instead, he smokes another cigarette, this time mildly more successful at it than the first, and after, he goes back inside and drinks wine until he’s sure to have a headache tomorrow. Maybe someday, he thinks. But not yet.

*

Truth be told, Draco hasn’t thought much about the war. He’s not part of the Order, and most of the fighting is taking place in Western Europe. So far, Romania has been largely unaffected, and the sanctuary is far enough away from any major cities that he wouldn’t notice even if Voldemort came to Bucharest.

He thinks it might’ve been different if Potter had invited him to come along on his search for horcruxes. But he didn’t, and Draco didn’t offer, and that had been that. But he does notice everyone’s letters sounding grimmer and grimmer, and he notices Charlie looking wearier with every day, and hiding away in Romania forever is feeling increasingly less like an option.

He wonders how his family is doing. Would they kill him on the spot if they saw him? Aunt Bella might. But he doesn’t think his mother would, and Father…even before he ran away, it’d been years since Draco had had a real conversation with Lucius Malfoy, so he can’t be certain.

He's also thinking more and more about Sirius these days. The parallels are obvious, so obvious that he wants to scream sometimes, because he loathes being a cliché. He wonders if Sirius and James Potter ever shagged. They were best mates, weren’t they? And they shared a dormitory for years, and he’s seen photos of them, they were proper fit. There had to have been at least an awkward handjob at some point.

But whether they shagged or not, he does know that Sirius would’ve never abandoned James. Not ever. Does that make Draco a bad person? Probably. Even if Potter had invited him along, he’s not certain he would’ve accepted.

He’s also not certain that he wouldn’t have, though. Perhaps that’s what makes all the difference.

And then one evening on the first day of May, Charlie walks into his bedroom without knocking and says, “I have to get back to England.”

“What, now?”

“Now. The Order is gearing up for battle. I’ll be taking a portkey in twenty minutes.” Charlie hesitates, then says, “You don’t have to come with me. No one would blame you if you stayed here.”

Draco glances at his desk, his last half-written letter to Potter still lying there, waiting to be finished. Potter hadn’t mentioned a battle. Hadn’t mentioned anything of consequence.

Still. Maybe it’s time for Draco to take the initiative.

“Let’s go,” he says. “I suppose I might as well prove Potter wrong for once.”  

*

He doesn’t.

When he finally arrives at the castle in the middle of the battle, he doesn’t kill anyone, he doesn’t pull a sword out of any hats, he doesn’t take a heroic stand. Everything that happens in Hogwarts that night, he only finds out about much, much later, when it’s too late to do anything about it.

What happens is this:

He walks past wizards who’re duelling each other, past angry house elves brandishing knives, past corpses of people he knows and people he doesn’t, unsure where he’s even planning to go, when someone says, “Draco?”

He turns. Standing only a few metres away from him, blood running down one side of her face, is a girl in Slytherin robes who looks vaguely familiar. It takes him a moment to place her: this is the first year who caught him in the Slytherin common room last year, the day Dumbledore died. Well, she’s in second year now, he supposes.

“Didn’t they evacuate you?” Draco asks.

“They did, but I slipped away. My sister’s seventeen already, so I thought she might stay and fight. She’s in Ravenclaw,” the girl adds, like anyone cares about houses anymore.

Draco nods slowly. “Did you find her?”

“She’s over there.”

At first, he doesn’t realise why she’s pointing at a wall. Then he realises that she’s actually pointing at the lifeless body of a dark-haired girl who’s lying in front of the wall, eyes forever unseeing. He swallows.

“Right,” he says. Shit. He’s never been particularly good with kids. He wasn’t even good with kids when he was a kid. But they’re standing in the middle of a battlefield, and her dead sister is lying right there, and even he knows that he can’t just leave her. “What’s your name?”

“Bella,” she says, and he almost laughs, because he’s sure that Aunt Bella is also around here somewhere, presumably murdering a whole lot of people.

“Come on, then, Bella,” Draco says. “Let’s get out of here.”

It comes as a surprise when she takes his hand, because she seems a little old for that. Then again, she did just see her sister’s corpse, so who is Draco to judge? He’s actively avoiding looking at any more bodies as he leads her out of the castle, his feet automatically finding the familiar way to Hogsmeade. There is fighting here, too, but significantly less so, and the few duels they walk past are easy to avoid.

After a few minutes, Bella asks, “Where are we going?”

“Hogsmeade,” Draco says, belatedly realising that if she’s in second year, she’s never been. “That’s a wizarding-“

“I know what Hogsmeade is,” she says, sounding offended. Then she points. “What’s that over there?”

“That’s the Shrieking Shack. It’s-“

“I know what the Shrieking Shack is.”

“You know everything, do you?” Draco asks tartly, and immediately wishes he’d perish on the spot. But instead of bursting out crying, she just glares at him, which is healthy, probably.

Hogsmeade is eerily empty, nothing at all like the bustling streets he knows from their visiting weekends. Everyone has either gone to Hogwarts to fight, or they’ve gone into hiding. The houses are dark, even the street lights are off.

Draco’s plan ends here. He’s done his job, he’s gotten the twelve-year-old away from the battle, now what? Dawn will be breaking soon, but are there any trains still driving? Does the floo network still work? Is there a portkey they can take? Wait – there is one option left. Even if he and Potter never did end up taking the official exam.

“Have you ever apparated before?” he asks.

Bella shakes her head. She’s pale, but overall rather composed so far.

“It’ll probably make you a bit nauseous, then,” he lies, and then decides that this girl has seen enough tonight to deserve not being lied to, and he amends, “that is, you’ll probably end up puking your guts out.”

He doesn’t mention the possibility of splintering, and he doesn’t tell her that he’s technically not legally permitted to apparate. Hogwarts is quite literally in flames; who cares about legality? What are they going to do, arrest him? All he does is grip her hand tighter, and close his eyes. Then they dissapparate.

He didn’t think about where he’s going. Still, it’s not quite a surprise when he ends up outside the Burrow.

“Can I go home?” Bella asks.

“Soon,” he promises.

He unlocks the door – not with a key, but by putting his hand on the door, which even after all these months still recognises his touch and swings open for him – and leads her inside the kitchen. She falls asleep at the table before she can take more than one sip of the tea he’s made. Merlin, she looks young like this. Did Potter ever look this young? Did Draco?

He finishes the tea on his own, occasionally glancing at her to make sure she’s doing alright, but mostly looking out the window, where the sky is painted in morning colours by now.

He has no idea what’s going to happen next. He doesn’t even know how the battle ended. But he does know that he doesn’t regret leaving the battlefield to bring a child to safety.

On a whim, Draco takes the ring he’s been wearing around his neck for almost seven years now, and slips it on his finger.

It fits perfectly.

Slowly, as though he’s in a trance, he takes it off again. He goes out into the garden, and before he has time to think about it, he throws it in the pond.

*

The next time he sees Potter, they’re at the funeral.

It’s a bright, sunny day, unusually warm for mid-May, and most guests already appear to be sweating under their black clothes – although then again, he thinks, they’re so used to wearing black these days that it hardly matters. This is the third funeral he’s attending this week, and that’s only because he wasn’t that close with most people who’ve died.

Next week, he’s been invited to another one. He still hasn’t made up his mind about whether he’ll go.

For now, though, that’s still far away. He expected there to be a 2:1 ratio of gingers here, but he supposes Fred had managed to make friends with almost everyone in Hogwarts, and every last one of them has come to pay their respects.

“He’d have hated this,” Ginny says, coming to stand next to him. Her eyes are red, but other than that, she looks surprisingly composed. “Everyone wearing black, everyone crying…he’d hate it. He’d tell us to crack a smile or something.”

“Of course he would,” Draco says. “That’s your brother for you. No sense of decorum. Even has to spoil the mood when it’s about his own death.”

“What a dick,” Ginny agrees, and starts crying. Draco awkwardly hands her a tissue, but she turns away, wiping her tears away with her hands and saying, “Don’t- I’ve been crying nonstop for weeks, this is getting ridiculous. I can’t do it anymore, I’m done. Say something to distract me.”

Draco thinks about it for a moment, then says, “Blaise owled. He wants to know if you’re still single.”

“Blaise? You know, there was this one moment, at Slughorn’s Christmas party last year, where we almost kissed, before Ron showed up and ruined it.”

“Bloody typical,” Draco says, and is glad to see that she’s smiling. It suits her more than the tears, and he’s pretty sure that Fred would agree.

Ginny wipes ineffectually at her eyes again and then says, “Oh. Oh, no.”

“What?”

“Look, if you like, you can totally make out with me, just to show him,” she says, which strikes Draco as utterly deranged until he follows her gaze and sees Potter making his way through the crowd, striding towards them with determination.

“I’m good,” he tells Ginny. “I’ll talk to him. You should go annoy George, really piss him off. He'll love it. Everyone’s been treating him with kid gloves. If that were me, I’d bloody well off myself.” It is not, perhaps, the most sensitive thing to say, but Ginny grins.

“If he snaps and tries to hex me or something, I’ll just tell him it was your idea,” she says, and adds, “good luck.”

She leaves just as Potter has finally managed to escape all the people who want to pat him on the shoulder and congratulate him, and is coming to a stop in front of Draco. He looks – different. Older. Draco has seen pictures of him in the papers, of course, but this is the first time they’ve met, properly met, in a year.

“Potter,” he says. “You look well.”

“Really? I think I look sleep-deprived,” Potter says. “Thanks for lying, though.”

Draco raises an eyebrow and waits. When nothing happens, he says, “Well? What’re you waiting for? A bow? A salute? Should I fall to my knees in gratitude?”

“Well,” Potter says, “a thanks might be nice.”

Draco snorts. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Thanks for subjecting us all to another two decades of praising the Golden Boy,” Draco says, and this time Harry is the one who lets out a laugh, shaking his head.

“I didn’t know what I was expecting. You really haven’t changed at all.”

But he has, Draco thinks. Just not in the ways Potter might have been expecting.

“I got your letters,” Potter says then, apropos of nothing and somewhat nonsensically.

“I know. You replied to them, remember? I think my favourites were the ones where you just told me what you’d had for breakfast that morning. Charlie was half-convinced you were telling me state secrets, when really, all you were doing was write about canned beans.”

Potter coughs and rubs at the back of his neck. He’s blushing a little. “I never knew whether our owls would be caught,” he says defensively. “I could hardly tell you about our plans.”

“You never did that, anyway,” Draco points out. “Not even when we were still at Hogwarts. Not even in sixth year.” Not even when we were dating. He's surprised by how bitter he sounds.

Potter must catch his tone, too, because he winces. “I didn’t want you to get involved. I- I didn’t think you wanted to get involved.”

“I didn’t,” Draco says promptly. “I’d rather set myself on fire. But I would’ve appreciated the option.”

“Next time, I’ll take that into consideration,” Potter promises solemnly.

Draco laughs. “Of course you think there’s going to be a next time. It’s never just a happy ending with you, is it?” His laugh dies in his throat when he sees the way Potter is looking at him – eyes serious, and sad, and just a tad hopeful.

“There could be,” Potter says slowly. “If, you know. If some people were up for it.”

Swallowing, Draco says, “Some people might take some convincing. Some people are still pretty pissed about their break-up.”

“Some people could consider forgiveness, considering their ex just saved the world.”

“I don’t know. Some people are fairly petty.”

“True,” Potter says, and Draco laughs again.

“You’re supposed to object to that.”

“I don’t like lying. I’ve got a whole scar to prove it.” Potter lifts his right hand.

Draco takes it. Draws him in. “That’s one fucked up thing to say,” he mutters, right against Potter’s lips, one hand still holding one to Potter’s, the other cradling his cheek.

“I missed you,” Potter mutters back.

“Don’t push it.” Then Draco finally kisses him. It’s strange and familiar at the same time, like entering a house for the first time in years and finding it not quite how he’d left it. Potter smiles into the kiss, drawing him in closer, and then suddenly it doesn’t matter that a whole year has passed, and that they’ve both changed. All that matters is that they’re right here, right now, finding each other again.

Later, he thinks that it seems oddly fitting that if this had to happen at a funeral, it would be Fred Weasley’s. He’s probably laughing at them from the grave.

*

A week after Draco gives into Potter’s happy ending, there is, of course, yet another funeral. He doesn’t go to the ceremony itself. But he does put in an appearance at the wake afterwards, just brief enough to see his parents. Father’s trial will be up soon, so he figured this might be his last opportunity to – what? Get closure? Gloat? He realises now that he wants neither of these things. Mostly, he just wants to leave.

“For what it’s worth,” Mother says, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “I’m – proud of you.”

Too little, too late, Draco does not say. He also doesn’t tell his mother to go fuck herself, either, even if part of him is tempted.

“Thanks,” he says instead. Mother is right – it’s not worth much. Not anymore.

He doesn’t stop to talk to Father. He just leaves. As he does, walking past the gravestones – many of them old, many more new – there is one that catches his attention. Of course. This is the family cemetery, after all.

Sirius Black

Nov. 3, 1959 – Jun. 18, 1996

And death shall have no dominion.

Someone, he notes, has engraved a tiny paw at the top left of the stone. He smiles.

*

A year later

He’s lying on his back in the Weasleys’ garden, head in Potter’s lap. Two years ago, this might have embarrassed him. Now, he doesn’t mind one bit.

Potter is stroking Draco’s hair, the way he always does when he’s thinking about something. Eventually, he says, “I should have been in Slytherin.”

Draco doesn’t move, but it’s a narrow miss. “What?”

“The Sorting Hat – it wanted to put me in Slytherin. I asked it not to.”

“Harry Potter in Slytherin,” Draco says thoughtfully. He laughs. “Can you imagine the outrage? You in Slytherin, me in Gryffindor. Hogwarts would crumble.”

“So…did you ask the Hat to put you in Gryffindor?”

Draco can’t help it. He asks again, “What?”

The fingers in his hair stop for a second, then resume their movement.

“I thought you might have. To get away from your family. Break traditions without making it seem like it’s your fault.”

“Potter,” Draco says. He sounds as incredulous as he feels. “It never mattered what house I’d be in. I used to think it did, but that wasn’t true. What mattered was everything else, all the choices I’d made for myself, not what some battered old hat thought I should be.”

“So it wasn’t a choice,” Potter says.

“Of course not. If it had been, I’d have chosen Slytherin any day.”

“Oh.”

“For fuck’s sake – this is nothing against you. Like I said. Houses don’t matter. I just didn’t understand that when I was eleven.”

“Right,” Potter says, not entirely convinced. For a few minutes neither of them says anything, fully content to stare at the sky above. Draco closes his eyes, only too happy to fall asleep, when Potter speaks up again. “Do you know why though?”

“Why what?”

“Gryffindor.”

“Amazing. After all this time, you still don’t think I’m brave enough to belong in Gryffindor.” A trace of the old bitterness comes up, but it’s not enough to remove his head from Potter’s lap. He wasn’t lying – it doesn’t matter. What annoys him is that Potter still thinks it does.

“You’re right. I don’t. Do you?”

Leaving his home. Kissing Potter. Taking a little girl’s hand. A wand, offered by Blaise, over a decade ago.

Draco’s voice is firm as he says, “Yes. I do.”

He looks up. The sky is blue.

Notes:

AND we're done. After six years of this story hanging out in the back of my head, I can finally have peace now. Thanks for sticking with me through this whole mess of Draco and Harry spectacularly missing the mark like, five times in a row. They got there in the end!

Comments replenish my blood and nourish my soul.

Notes:

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, consider leaving a comment and making my day!