Running Away

1

It was finally over. Voldemort was dead, the Death-Eaters were defeated and the good guys had won. It was supposed to be a time of rest before the celebrations and grieving truly began. For Harry Potter, the Chosen One, the Boy-Who-Lived-Twice, it brought a new form of fear and a new wave of helplessness. The damage to society was too much. A new influx in discrimination will arise, rebellions against the government and many other leaders of the wizarding world will begin, and worse yet, all the death and carnage would tear apart families, friendships and some people may even loose themselves. The Economy would fall. People who only want to fight will find something new to fight about, and they probably would never know who half the uncounted bodies are or what side people are on, so anyone missing, no one would know if they are dead, alive or on the run.

He needed to get away. Harry knew he had earned it, that a lot of people had earned it, but he was the poster child of the war, the boy who defeated the worst evil the younger generation of the wizarding world have ever seen. He would disappear for a while, leave everyone else to sort themselves out. Harry needed to find his own place of peace for a few months, away from the chaos.

An unlocked supply closet was directly beside Harry, so without a second thought he slipped within the door, fearing the bombardment of grateful people itching to dig their grimy, war soaked hands into his arms and choke him with consolations and congratulations. He wouldn't be able to handle it.

He rested his tired head against the solid door, tightening his grip on the doorknob, afraid to let it go. It was dark. Not relaxing, not suffocating, it was just... dark. Harry didn't realise the other person standing, back stiff, only a meter from himself, until the other boy let out a strained breath.

"Look, the war is over. I don't want to talk to anyone at the moment." The raven-haired boy sighed.

"I don't particularly want to talk either..." His voice was familiar. Even when he was whispering, Harry would recognise that voice anywhere. Malfoy could kill him right now and Harry wouldn't care. No one needed him anymore.

Pressing his back against the door, Harry slid slowly down and allowed himself to relax on the cold wooden floor. There was no awkwardness or malice in the ticking silence the boy's shared; only the rhythmic sound of breathing and the crashing, clanging and running going on outside. They could not see each other, the darkness removing any malice the boys would normally feel at the mere sight of the other. For once, they were able to share a room without any form of anger seeping through the walls.

"Thank you." Harry whispered, his voice low and cautious.

"For what?" Indifference seeped into Malfoy's reply. Harry had nothing to thank him for.

"Pretending you didn't know it was me..."

"I didn't." Sighing and placing his head in his hands, Harry began to shake, allowing himself for the first time to truly let go. Tears streamed down his face, running ramped without control, but he was happy. He could finally feel the pain he had supressed for the past seven years.

Draco Malfoy found himself drawn to the silently crying boy, he took a few steps forward and stared awkwardly at the trembling frame below him; much weaker than it had ever seemed to Malfoy. Potter had always been a thorn in his side, a measly worm he wanted to squish, but not once had he seemed weak. Without even being able to see Potter clearly in the dark, Malfoy took a knee, and took Harry in his arms. A hug so awkward it felt terrible for the both of them.

"What are you doing?" Harry softly laughed.

"I know what it's like to not be able to breath." Harry's breathing had stopped for a few seconds and he allowed himself to accept the embrace. "I still hate you." Quiet laughter came out of Harry.

"I wouldn't have it any other way."