#drarry angst
my ao3 (i’m more active here)
a/n: umm, heyyyy. idk what this is, i just wanted to write and i also wanted to let y’all know i’m alive. miss u.
summary: drarry after the war, dealing with trauma and love. roadtrip included
warnings: angsty, trauma, implied self h*rm - don’t read if you’re not up for it <3 stay well
Draco had never seen a car, let alone lived in one. It wasn’t as if he wanted to, either.
But Harry was insistent; he was going to leave, and Draco was welcome to come if he’d like, but if not, Harry would see him in a few weeks or so.
He had decided after one of his nightmares, the repeating one of wandering aimlessly down the halls of Hogwarts, just as tall as he was at 11, calling out for everyone he could think of and getting no response in return. He would feel around the pockets of his robes, only to find nothing but one of his small broken figurines from under the stairs and a muggle coin. He had no wand and it was getting dark, and still, no one answered him. He searched for the Great Hall, for the Fat Lady, for Dumbledore’s office, for the Pitch, for Hagrid’s hut, even for the dungeons. There was nothing, it was just one long hallway with creeping shadows, just as unfamiliar as his first night at Hogwarts. As he walked, he had a horrible pit in his stomach, even in the dream, because he knew what was at the end of the hall. It would be the mirror, and in the mirror, he would watch his parents die, again and again until he woke up screaming with sweat and tears covering his face.
Draco was there, of course. He was always there. Harry would only be able to see a flash of his hair in the small sliver of moonlight that peaked through their curtains. Then, faster than he could object, Draco pulled him back down, pulling his sleeves over his hands and using them to wipe Harry’s face, smoothing his hair down whichever way it could go.
It was like, after the war. Harry had expected so much worse, and yet he underestimated everything else. He had thought it would be so heavy, that he could never escape the dark, or the screams, or the death. It turned out that he had never escaped the part of his life before that. He had nightmares of the Dursleys, nightmares of his parents, nightmares of Quirrell and the Basilisk. It swirled around his brain constantly, like a muggy sewer with a drain clogged. He felt like he needed his skin pulled back and for everything to be scooped out and polished.
The morning after the last nightmare, Harry awoke before Draco. He laid with Draco’s arm draped across his chest, watching it rise and fall as he breathed. He held his breath for a moment, watching as Draco’s fingers reflexively gripped Harry’s shirt. He continued breathing, watching Draco’s hand relax.
He closed the blinds completely as he quietly left the room, looming in the doorway to look at the bed. He had left almost no mark, his pillow barely dented from where he had twisted and turned all night. But there was Draco, curled into an invisible space as if Harry were still there, as if he needed Harry to unwind him and reposition him for the day.
Harry set off to their small, shabby kitchen and put the kettle on. He put two pieces of bread in the toaster, opening their fridge and surveying their pathetic groceries. Neither of them had been taught to live on their own, and it showed. All they had was soda, beer, an unopened packet of hotdogs, butter, and milk. Harry stood upright and looked at the counter; they didn’t even have hotdog buns.
He had just started buttering Draco’s toast when two delicate arms wrapped around his middle. His back instinctively curved into the shape of Draco’s chest, and he craned his neck to afford Draco the small inch he needed to place his chin on Harry’s shoulder comfortably.
It was wonderful, and still, Harry could feel it resting in his bones, his skin itching to be peeled and flayed open.
Draco had very little fight in him, these days. He felt it melt away every time Harry broke his glasses, or every time Harry watered his plants, or every time Harry picked up the knitting needles and started a new project. It was replaced by something warm, something that was becoming so hot it burned him. But, the fight was gone. The part of him that had been leading him towards harsh teasing and relentless bullying was gone, instead replaced by a cold layer over his eyes. The inside of him burned with love for Harry, but it was like he was submerged in an ice tank and can’t warm himself. He did everything quietly; he found the patterns in which he could get Harry’s hair to lay, he watched Harry with silent interest in everything he did, he offered himself to Harry whenever he could.
So, of course, Draco was sat in the passenger’s seat of the shitty car Harry had managed to buy. He couldn’t be anywhere else, not when everything was cold without Harry.
Harry found it hard to drive for two reasons. The first was that he was a bad driver. He hadn’t exactly gotten an abundance of opportunities to learn growing up, and it would be reasonable to say that he had hoped for the best when he took his test and was pleasantly surprised when he passed. The second was that Draco looked quite good next to him, distractingly good. He still wore a long sleeve, even though it was warm enough for Harry to wear a t-shirt with the windows down, but Draco only wore long sleeves after the war. It had been hard for Draco to watch Harry look at his forearm, at what Draco had done to it out of shame after having to look at the mark himself for so long. So, he covered it with sleeves as often as he could. His hair was pushed off his forehead- the both of them had been neglecting haircuts, letting the other perform a cosmetic charm when they felt it was necessary- and wisped around his face like a heavenly halo. His eyes were still an icy blue, though, for the first time in months, they looked quite warm. He had a red flush on his cheeks when he noticed Harry staring at him, smiling and putting a delicate hand over his face as he turned toward the window bashfully.
As it got dark, all Harry could see was the few and ar between oncoming headlights, spotted with the sparse flashes of light dotting the rural countryside. The light from the radio illuminated the inside of the car, Draco’s long and melancholy CD’s he had bought when Harry took him into town. Draco had been asleep for an hour or so, and things were starting to blur in Harry’s vision. He pulled over, waking Draco from his light doze. They both lowered their seats, Harry shutting off the car. Without the noisy hum of the engine and Draco’s music, it was silent besides the wildlife outside. Wind moved the trees overhead, shaking leaves onto the windshield as they sat, idle. Harry turned to his side, laying as comfortably as he could (which was not very comfortable at all), and looked at Draco’s tired face. It was so different at night, his cheekbones casting dark shadows, eyes foggy, mouth in a familiar straight line. Harry wondered if he could close his eyes and reach out, recognize Draco’s face from touch alone. His eyes fluttered shut and he did exactly that, listening for the quiet sigh Draco often released when Harry touched him unexpectedly. Draco pulled his legs onto the seat, his body curled up. Harry’s fingers found the dip above Draco’s lips, the slight point of his chin. He smoothed his thumb over Draco’s eyebrows, invisible unless illuminated in the right light. He could see Draco behind his eyelids, as distinct as if he had opened his eyes. In the midst of his clogged and diseased brain, Draco was there, distinct as a bright light.
“This isn’t very comfortable,” Harry sighed, turning onto his back and planting his feet on the floor of the car, “is it?”
“No,” Draco said, not sounding like he minded it at all.
Harry wordlessly crawled in the backseat, pushing discarded food wrappers onto the floor. Draco followed him, listening to Harry’s stifled laughter as they navigated their long legs in the small space.
They twisted and turned until they lay side by side, Harry stripping off his shirt to prepare for the night heat. Draco pulled his sleeves over his hands, only his fingers visible as they traced up and down the side of Harry’s neck. Draco felt, suddenly, that they were alone. As if they hadn’t been alone in their apartment for all those months, as if he didn’t feel alone his whole life. He was reminded of how young they were, of the lack of age on Harry’s body beneath his fingertips. He wondered if they looked like boys together, or if the war was clear on their faces. Had the people in the gas station known? Had they seen two boys who had hated each other all their lives, two boys fighting each other in a way? Or had they seen two boys traveling the countryside together, buying too many crisps and candies and sodas?
The next day, after they had lazily kissed each other for hours and Harry reluctantly moved back to the driver’s seat, Draco thought of all the places Harry had told him about. About the beaches Remus had always wanted to go to but never got the chance, the woods Sirius told him James loved so much, the mountains Hermione had promised him were breathtaking. Draco thought that Harry might be showing him the good that was tangled with the mold within him. That maybe, as they drove, Harry was leaving behind everything that crowded his head. Harry hoped that the sun might warm the outside of Draco, just to match the inside a little.
