𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐔𝐒 2008

Running Up That Hill (2/2)

Running Up That Hill Part 2 of 2

“It’s actually working,” the blond man says. There’s a look of bewildered wonder that crosses his face, which Rita cannot clutch at, which she has never written.

“I just need to hold on,” he says. “I need to make him understand, and then it’ll be worth it.”

He closes his eyes and a smile plays at his lips. “It’s already worth it,” he says.

Something had to be wrong.

Harry was worried by his own happiness. Since the nightmare, Draco had not spent a single night at the manor – in fact he hadn’t mentioned his parents at all, and while he and Harry had teased and ribbed, had thrown barbs and had pushed each other into walls, onto the floor, pinned each other to the bed, had been rough with each other, there had been none of the anger, nothing of the burning desire to hurt and cause pain that had previously characterised their relationship.

They were becoming, after almost a year of being together in some form, a couple, and it scared Harry.

He was scared, most of all, by how much he wanted it, how much he wanted Draco. He couldn’t let himself believe that it would last, because experience had shown him that it wouldn’t, and Harry didn’t think he’d bear it.

It was, in a way, too perfect. Harry had been working late one night, frowning over witness statements, trying to connect anything that had happened in the Dawlish case to anything that was going on now – the four photographs, hidden in their drawer, burning behind his eyes. As he worked he’d been idly stroking Pharaoh from time to time. Harry found himself fond of the cat, mainly because the cat seemed to prefer him to any other Auror in the department. It was always Harry’s desk that Pharaoh was asleep on when Harry arrived in the mornings; it was always Harry’s legs that Pharaoh rubbed himself around in greeting. With everyone else Pharaoh allowed their petting as though he were doing them a favour: when Harry stroked him Pharaoh purred.

“Sod it,” he’d said at last to Pharaoh. Pharaoh looked disgruntled; Harry had stopped stroking him. Harry started up again, and listened to the cat’s loud purrs. “You’re a softy, really, aren’t you?” Harry said. “I’m going to leave you to catch rats, or whatever you do when everyone’s gone home. I’m knackered. I’m going to go home and see if Kreacher will make me bacon and eggs for supper.”

Pharaoh had yawned at him, then had sauntered out of the Auror department.

When Harry had locked up and gone home, it was to the sizzling scent of grilling bacon and frying eggs, and to Draco saying sharply, “I can do it, Kreacher. Cooking’s much easier than Potions, let me tell you,” while Kreacher tugged at his ears in consternation.

The eggs had been runny and the bacon had been burnt. Harry hadn’t cared.

He told himself that he was being stupid, that he should just enjoy himself while Draco was in such a good mood, and to take as much advantage as he could to shore him up for the times ahead when Draco left. Harry tried to ignore the crushing sensation in his chest when he thought of this.

He had the dream three times in two weeks, and each time Draco was there, muttering sleepy reassurances. The waking was almost worth the dream.

“I’m going to the Weasleys’ this evening.”

Harry saw Draco’s back stiffen and knew, knew before they’d even started, that here was the end of it, the conversation that would mark the end of the too-happy last few weeks.