#flangsty

Pairing: Dean x Reader. Other Characters: Sam, Charlie, Bobby & Rufus (mentioned)

Word Count: 6500+ (This one kinda got away from me, sorry)

Warnings: Show-level mentions of violence, a bit angsty, but fluffy in the end

Summary: A werewolf hunt doesn’t go as planned, so our Reader feels that changes need to be made.

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The ride back to the bunker from the back seat of the Impala was tense, to say the least. There was very little, if any, conversation and no music. From time to time, Dean's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror to look back at you. Then his eyes would return to the view in front of him as he shook his head.

"Dean, I'm--" you started to say on one of the times you caught his eye.

"Save it. I don't want to talk about it right now," he growled.

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You, Sam and Dean were on the hunt for a pack of werewolves in Parkersburg, Iowa. They were working the 'car broke down' angle to draw in their victims. People would stop to see if they could help, then the werewolves attacked and carved out their victims' hearts.

Your research told you that this was a small pack of around 3-4 wolves, taking refuge between attacks in an abandoned shack. No match for you and the mighty Winchesters. As you entered the house through the back, you carefully swung the door open, wincing as you heard it creak. You waited a few breaths, but didn't hear any movement, so you continued on your path into the house.

Sam and Dean were on the main floor, checking out the other rooms when you thought you heard a noise in the basement. You made your way to the door leading to the basement and slowly descended the staircase. The door blew shut behind you, but you continued on your way down the stairs.

Harry closed the door behind him, feeling the light rain that had started falling when he got to London. The townhouse stood there, the windows still silent, lights out, as it was still empty. He knew, though, boxes were now scattered through the floor, half open, some clothes spilling out, his few possessions thrown around as he started to unpack. He should have brought everything in his trunk, as he had said, but Hermione thought he had to have boxes, so he got boxes.

He sighed. The street was calm, only a few people wandered by, and he started to walk towards the closest take out. It was thai, and he felt a little warm inside thinking how mundane his life could be right now. It was a random thursday night and he would have thai. In his house. In muggle London. The vague memory of the months before the wedding came running back to him. After the war, his face was everywhere, everyday. His very green eyes mixed up with the fine print in the newspaper and made even less sense than the words. The trials were a collage of blurry scenes, noisy voices and solemn silence. Sometimes, he was the one speaking, but he could only hear his speeches as they were someone else’s. Diagon Alley was too loud, too full. The whispers still haunted him when he was in silence. “That’s Harry Potter!”, “Harry, a picture, please!”, “A word on Greyback’s sentence?”.

Grimmauld Place was, again, a solitude fortress. He knew people were starting to go back to their lives. Hermione and Ginny went back to Hogwarts after the reconstruction, to take their final year and get their N.E.W.Ts. Ron was looking after the shop with George, as he was in no condition to do it by himself. And Harry was just there. He read his owls as they came, answered sometimes - but Shacklebolt’s kept piling up, sometimes unopened, full of polite requests to meet the Head Auror for a job position, and even politer offers of help. Help, how would he ever need help? There was nothing else to do - or to say - anymore. It was over, done. His wand felt foreigner in his hand, his magic was unstable. Everyone knew his name, his face, his hair and his eyes, and everyone seemed to think he was wise and sure of what was right and what was not. And if you asked him, few months before, he was so sure. He knew what was right: coming back, defeating Voldemort, keeping people safe. But then? Nothing he did could change this world anymore.

So he didn’t do anything.

Ron was in and out of Grimmauld place at first. Molly and some of the boys would visit eventually. Hermione and Ginny came by during the winter break, and the first Weasley Christmas Dinner was easy to avoid. Fred wasn’t there. No one could really celebrate, not yet. When that summer arrived, though, and the girls came back from school, Ginny had been selected by the Holyhead Harpies, and went directly into training. But even as worked up with the Ministry’s business as Hermione got when she was asked to sit in the Magical Beings Law and Diplomacy Office, she was always the one to start noticing things. He put on quite a show on the first few months, changing outfits, keeping the cupboards full, even renovating some of the dark rooms in the old Black Manor. But soon she sat with him, with that know-it-all look on her face, to ask if he had actually been out of the house. He looked at his cup of tea, and hadn’t bothered to answer.

That was when the interventions started. The Weasleys sent him invitation after invitation, to dinners, teas, breakfasts, brunches, any and everything. Neville kept sending him a few plants to look after, sometimes with beautiful pictures of him travelling the world to study tropical magical flora. Ginny tried to come over more, talk to him, ask him - begging, even - to watch her matches, but he wouldn’t make it through the door. And he saw it was driving her mad. Eventually, between angry shouts, desperate sobs, warm hugs and kind words, they broke up. It was okay, honestly, he couldn’t see anything for him in the world anymore. But she had the right to live her life.

Ron and Hermione were his constant company. He knew those two would never back out on him. One day, they came to announce their wedding. He could see they were both so happy for it, but so sad they knew their best friend would not make it there. In one or two glances, he noticed part of them blamed him too. It didn’t really affect him - it was his fault from the very beginning. What was there to do? That was until the first time Luna came by. She never tried to take him out of the house, she just stayed for some time, drank some tea, and talked about the last discovery she had published at The Quibbler. Once, though, he asked her if one of those could explain why he couldn’t get out of the house. “Oh, Harry, there’s nothing magical keeping you inside”, she laughed soundly, “your problem is you can’t get out of your head”.

Not long after that, Hermione managed to convince him to start therapy. Mr. Argus, a mediwizard in his forties, started to come for an hour everyday. After a few months, Harry was given some challenges. Going out to Ron and Hermione’s new flat, for example. That came to be his second home. His improvement seemed to add up to his best friends overall happiness, he gave ideas about the reception, and they had great dinners every thursday. Seeing other people was a setback. But those dinners started to get crowded, full of loving faces of people he could only feel affection and gratitude for. Even Gin got used to this new state of things. They were then headed to a friendship they never really had before, in which she wasn’t anyone’s sister, and they didn’t have to keep up with each other’s romantic expectations.  

His public appearances, though, were a whole new story. People didn’t really stop him or touch him at all. They stared, with startled eyes, to the Saviour of the wizarding world. Some were curious, most were afraid. Every single stroll to a wizard street ended up in the next day’s morning newspaper. As he would save them again from a dark wizard while he got a coffee from the cafe in Diagon Alley. He was getting used to it, slowly. He decided to wander around Muggle London, as people did look at him too - he knew since a young age his dark complexion, tall figure, topped with messy hair and bright green eyes were an attention getter in any place of England, no matter how little magic was around - but they did so with the acknowledgement that he was no more than a funny looking stranger. He savoured this word in every look - it felt so good to be ordinary again.

When he noticed, he had accomplished his last challenge: attend the wedding. It was a night full of kindness, he could see how the love poured out of the bushy-haired girl and the freckled tall boy he had met ten years before. Their magic danced around the place, binding them up in a union that was far from bureaucratic. It wrapped every single guest, every family member, in sparkling energy that started to soothe some of Harry’s wounds. Some he didn’t know he had to start with. Some things, then, started to fall into place. The new couple’s house couldn’t be his refuge whenever he felt like Grimmauld Place was pulling him in again. But going back to where he was after the war was not a possibility. He started to make visits. He was going from house to house, showing them how they ended up helping him in the end. He started visiting the graves of the friends he had said goodbye to, but hadn’t really let go.

Andromeda’s place was one of the last houses to visit, and definitely the hardest. Teddy was already three years old, and while he knew Andromeda would never let anything come in the way of the little boy’s happiness, he was also aware that the blue-haired kid was his responsibility too. He made himself swear to her - but mostly to himself - that he would be present, see his godson grow up, and make sure his parents memory grew up with him. He went back to Hogwarts, once. Let the emotion come up to him as he watched the quidditch practice from the stands. In this place lived a ingenuous kind of happiness that didn’t belong to him anymore. And never would. But Harry made peace with it. And when he came back to Grimmauld’s Place, he decided it was time to sell.

The muggle townhouse should help him forget all about houses flooded with magic that pull you in when you are at your darkest moment. But it wasn’t as much as the house as it was the rain or the promised thai food. He was feeling peaceful in being by himself for the first time in so long. His steps echoed in the sidewalk, and even though he could feel the weight of his wand in the loop sewed to his hoodie’s right arm, no one else in the street could tell. It was his secret to keep. It was his secret to share.

When he went by the door of a fresh-looking pub, he felt like coming in. Everyone there seemed to be around his age, even the blue eyed girl who gave him a half-smile when he approached the bar.

“Hey, what are you having?” she poured two pints and slided them towards a couple in the right side of the bar.

“Do you have anything to eat?” and soon after she offered him the options in their pizzeria, he saw his slice come accompanied with a pint of their local brew. He ate in silence, taking in the sound of the laughing in the background, the bets over darts in one corner and the soft music that made the place feel warmer.

“You’re new around here, aren’t you?” she asked, as she motioned to refill his pint, to which he nodded. “I figured, most of our clients are locals, but you are a fresh face. I’m Ellie, by the way.”

“Harry” he said, taking a sip. “I just bought a house a few blocks down here, I was going to get some take out, but this place seemed nice. Is it yours?”

“You just bought a house? But you look so young! Well, it’s mine, Jack’s,” she pointed at a man with shaggy hair and a big smile in one of the tables, “and Chiara’s, who’s in the kitchen. She’s the cook, I’m a bartender, and Jack’s the kid with the money, like you, I guess. What do you do?”

“Hm, nothing to be honest.” he gave her a sad smile, thinking about how that would soon be a poor excuse if he kept interacting with muggle people as he intended. He lifted his hand to grab his cup absentmindedly, but ended up knocking it to the floor. He stopped the fall and levitated it back to his hand out of instinct, wandless magic that seemed to pour out of him as needed some times. Maybe it was the whole dying-and-coming-back-thing, but it was sure a problem in a muggle bar. Ellie was clearly startled, but he saw the relief in her face, as he placed the cup back in the counter, almost as full as it was before. “I tend to break things up, though.”

“That catch was impressive, actually. You must be a private school jock, am I right? Let me guess? Lacrosse?”

“Well, not really. I’m just a wizard, Ellie.” She laughed wholeheartedly, his truth-joke coming out with the exact intention he had. He smiled with her. “Is guessing what people do a hobby of yours?”

“It gets quite boring here sometimes. When someone knew comes in, I like to imagine their stories. It’s good to memorize the faces too.”

They chatted up a little more, between orders and customers, as the young woman seemed to not notice how Harry kept dodging her personal questions. It seemed more obvious to him now how it was so hard to witches and wizards to make friends with muggles. Absolutely no questions was answerable: what do you do? Oh, casual dark lords defeating. Where have you been to school? Your usual magic castle up in Scotland. Where’s your family? All dead in the First Wizarding War. Why did you move? Post-war panic syndrome. Nope, it didn’t sound like good conversation at all. It sounded more like an imminent owl coming from the Ministry to attest he had broken the Statute of Secrecy and should turn in his wand immediately. This was going to be more complicated than expected.

Harry payed up, and left the pub slowly. It was far from empty, and the young crowd already seemed to be not so sober as they were when he arrived. When he bumped into one of the guys and took more than necessary to regain his feet, he noticed he was probably more on the drunk-ish side too. As he looked to the door, he noticed how the muggle people seemed so carefree on the street. They smiled and played around as no war had ended only three years ago. Well, for them, it didn’t, he thought, with a little envy. The only exception was the guy leaning on the doorframe, his shoulders broad and stiff, brows furrowed, as he had had his own share of real stress. He was typing quickly in one of those muggle phones pressing each button a couple of times before getting to the next to one. His face was half hidden by the long white-blond hair, but his pointy features were softened by a stubble and  an easy smirk.

He standed like so many people Harry had met before - the ones who were thought how to stand, where to put his shoulders, with the royal posture the should go with their names. Like Sirius used to, though, there was a conscious effort to slack, maybe aided by the plain white tee and the beat-up jacket. He looked like the pictures he had seen of his parents and their friends when they were young, celebrating christmases and halloweens, with their cool looks even in the middle of the Order’s tasks. The high cheekbones and strong jaw really looked like one of the Blacks, if only Sirius could ever pull off blond hair. He smiled with the possibility. The guy got off his position and, pulling one of the strands of his hair out of his face, disappeared in the noisy streets.

On going work on AO3.

The two of them sat on the sidewalk, watching the sun rise. Harry thought maybe it was the moment to go. Going inside Grimmauld Place was something he had no reason to fear. When they arrived, it wasn’t there. Like the first time he saw the place, numbers eleven and thirteen were side by side, a regular state for the muggle eye. In the beginning, they tried every spell in the book, went back and forth. One time, they actually tried going inside the neighbour’s house to look for anything that could lead them inside. There was nothing, emptiness only. Harry even tried to feel the house - and he felt all the magic that surrounded him, running through his veins, and wrapping itself around him. He felt Malfoy, a source of magic as distinct and familiar as his, that spread tall, the edges flowing a little with the wind. But that was all. There was no more magic around. It was like Grimmauld Place was not but a bad dream, no more than a memory.

He hated that fact at first. It’s weird how we get attached to the memories of the worst moments of our lives. He blamed Malfoy for a while. Then, the blond blamed him. He didn’t seem to cope with the lost of the house any better than Harry. They threw insults and got ideas, and tried, and remembered unusual spells. And they tried so hard. Eventually they sat down, the enraged talk restraining to whispering insults, hushed small-talk, and finally some comfortable silence. It was only two hours later that he saw the first light. In his silence, his worries about the absence of the house started to bother him a little less. He didn’t need the house or the money that would come after it was sold. It didn’t hold any memories he should keep - it reminded him of the Order, of the only year he actually spent with Sirius. But somehow he didn’t feel like that Sirius was the real one. He wasn’t as big in his memory as the one he saw on pictures, big smile, relaxed posture, playful behaviour. That thought warmed him inside a little bit - he did get to know Sirius, not the shadow of a man he had become.

Harry saw Malfoy stretch his legs at his side. It had been the weirdest night, expect that it hadn’t. Somehow, his enemy’s presence was a little like coming home. From the heated arguments to the silence as they sat there, it was what he was used to. It happened for so many years through classes, meals and detentions, Malfoy’s presence was as much as a constant in his life as any one of the gryffindors. And now, they were not being threatened. There was no big evil ready to take their lives - big houses disappearances or not - and Harry could finally feel some gratitude about it. Some people were the only ones who would know his story, even if he was the one telling people in the future. People in the wizarding world all thought they knew - from their small personal experiences and newspaper articles. People in the muggle world didn’t have the slightest clue, and he couldn’t really tell them. The only ones who would ever understand were the ones who were there, too close to it, too damaged by it, just as him.

He didn’t know how it affected Malfoy, on the other hand. Ron and Hermione had found in each other their coping mechanisms, and the Weasley family trusted their unity and warmth to get through their losses. Andromeda had Teddy to look out for, and Harry had to remember to never take that away from her too. Ginny had quidditch, and even though it sounded weird to think about a sport instead of a person, he knew the war gave Ginny more energy to the independence she already had. She was independent of everyone, before, except for him. And now she was free, flying as she knew no fall would take her to her lowest, because she had been there before. It was honestly beautiful to watch. It was a shame he hadn’t been able to keep up with it.

Malfoy was a mystery altogether. He saw how hurt he was before and after the battle. That day in the bathroom in sixth year was still one of his most recurring nightmares. Chills ran up his spine at the memory. He glanced to the side, watching the man play with his hat, orange rays of sun escaping to tint his white hair gold.

“Do you have scars?” he asked, breaking the long silence.

“More than I count.” Malfoy unconsciously grabbed his left forearm, rubbing slightly at it. Harry looked down at it, noticing how the black now spread through the blond’s arm, far bigger than the dark mark had ever been. The mark was faded in the middle, surrounded by delicate lines that traced flowers up and down. He tried to search his memory of herbology classes, but had no luck pinpointing what they were. That was not his question, though, he never meant Voldemort’s scars. Those he knew about. Acknowledging his responsibility of some of the gruesome events that occurred on those dark years was what pained him.

(Part I, Part II) Music had never been a big part of Harry’s life. Not when he was little and Dudley was the one in charge of everything that played around the house, and not at Hogwarts as being chased down by a madman didn’t really have a soundtrack. He told the girls about his lack of knowledge in the musical department and they decided to school him. Each night, they would play different things on the pub’s stereo, showing him CD’s and tapes and records they had collected throughout the years.

The proximity with them was also what made him realize he soon needed to get up to date with muggle technology. As the house filled in with furniture, it also started filling in with cables and a brand new computer and even a cellphone. The right next day, one of them asked him for his number. Saved by the bell. He also bought a telly, a VHS player and a DVD player, even if it didn’t sound as the most fun thing to do, it was part of the deal. Most of the shows were uninteresting, or talked about sappy love stories he couldn’t relate to or great war tales he was fed up of. His life already seemed like the stuff that was made up to be on TV too much for him to appreciate it properly. On the other hand, Harry thought he had to ask Mr. Weasley to come by sometime. The house would be a theme park for him.

Eventually, it started to look like something that belonged to him. He separated a room for Teddy, in which he could grow. The small bed could turn into something bigger, and there was room for a desk so he could do homework when needed. He put one of his favorite pictures of Remus and Tonks in a portrait by the bedside table. Remus grinned slowly as Tonks started to make faces to the camera. One of the walls had a big mirror, as he thought it would be a quite important thing for a little metamorphmagus.

There were details in gryffindor colors here and there, but overall everything was clear and simple, with bright details around in every color you could think of. There was a big blue side table on the hall, for his keys and cellphone - hah! It was a great acquisition. The kitchen had dark green cupboards, and the couches in the living room had colorful striped blankets that reminded him a lot of the Burrow.

The bookshelf now mixed up quidditch, charms, PCs for dummies, and some muggle classics. It also started to take hold of Harry’s muggle music collection. He was clearly not really fond of pop music - specially that byebyebye song, but he could give Chiara’s what a girl wants song some consideration. The Nirvana band that started the whole conversation wasn’t his cup of tea either. It was okay, but not one of his favorites. He really liked the Oasis and their Standing On The Shoulders of Giants album was right next to Blink 182’s Enema of the State. Ellie described his new musical taste as “random brit teenager who thinks he’s too cool for school”, which he couldn’t really argue with, could he? They introduced him to some rock classics too - John Lennon and Queen went straight into his collection, even if he wondered if the latter was really a muggle band. It sure didn’t sound like one.

Their friendship started making him talk to different people everyday. He even had them notice he actually liked girls too, as they talked about the people going around the bar each night. No one there had the same effect as the guy who reminded him of Sirius. And he hadn’t appeared again. Not that he was looking - why would he look for a random muggle guy who he had seen once, someone who could never be fully part of his life? Because that was bothering him everyday. He always thought about inviting his new friends to his place, but weird things kept happening. Everytime he left clothes pilling up on the bathroom floor, they ended up somehow clean and properly hanged in his closet. The dishes in the sink would wash themselves and he felt that even some of the kitchen appliances were starting to do things on their own, as his toast would be done way too fast in the morning, or the milk that wouldn’t spoil even if he forgot it open for days.

He wondered if Kreacher was sneaking in and out and keep things together, even though it didn’t seem likely. He couldn’t find a better explanation, so he settled with that. But as his sociability was improving everyday, he decided to occupy his mind with more important matters, as owling Mr. Argus to inform him how well his recovery has been. He even met Jack the other day, who was overall polite, but didn’t really seem interested in making the friendship grow. He dressed like most of the guys Harry saw on the telly, his hair streaked by highlights. Sometimes he wondered if his polished Harry Potter look would ever compare to a guy like this, but he shook the thoughts away. He could do with plain tees, some jackets or even cargo pants, but trying to lighten his hair could have disastrous results.

He didn’t think it mattered, though. He was never one to befriend everyone around, to make an effort on getting people’s attention. Maybe he was just used to being lonely, after all. Or it was the fact that entitled blokes were never his fancy. He did hate Malfoy from day one, and he had heard what the girls said about Jack: the guy had grown with money. He should have thought about that when he made his back up story - now everyone was going to expect him to be as spoiled as Jack and Malfoy. Just great. Just as the thought hit him, his fireplace burnt bright green, and Ron’s face appeared on the ashes.

“Harry? Hullo?”

“Ron! You’re back! How was the honeymoon?” he asked, approaching the floo connection.

“It was great, mate. I got to visit Egypt finally! How is the new place?”

“Coming together, why don’t you two come through and check it out?”

Not long after that, Ron and Hermione were sitting in his living room, and cups of tea flew to their hands. They told all about their trip, that extended to innumerous magical cities and a couple muggle ones. They avoided Australia altogether. Hermione hadn’t found a way to revert the spell on her parents memory, and not poking into their lives was too much of a challenge. Harry told them about his new friends and the pizzeria, and the couple was eager to compare the food with the one they tasted in Rome. Harry showed them some music, Ron was surprising really into the one Nsync CD Ellie gave him to listen to, and Hermione was absolutely horrified with the dancing scene that accompanied it. The conversation flow was comfortable and warming, as always. Absentmindedly, he mentioned Kreacher coming in and out of the house on his own will.

“Kreacher? The house-elf?” Hermione asked, with a suspicious face.

“Yes, he came to ask me to say goodbye to Grimmauld Place, and since then, he keeps organizing things and washing dishes and what not.”

“I can’t feel any house-elf magic here. Really, nothing. I don’t know how he’s done it” she said, getting up and looking around, especially at his well dusted tables and the animated utensils in the kitchen. “Have you seen him here after he came to talk to you?”

“Hm, no.” He said, a knot forming on his stomach. Maybe he should have worried before. “That’s weird. Do you think someone else has been coming here?”

“They might. I can poke around, open an investigation. Would you like me to?”

“Yes, please.” With furrowed brows and worried goodbyes, that put an end to any conversation about muggle food they could have. They were not used to being threatened anymore. They shouldn’t be. The war was over, and the worries now should all be inside their own heads - the memories, the shadows, the losses. Not walking around his bloody house.

Soon enough, Hermione had several wards and spells surrounding the house. The floo was disconnected, no one could apparate inside. He even tried to stay in more the next weeks, to keep an eye on things. But his routine going to the bar, discussing people and music and having a good time outside was too precious to let go. They asked the Auror department to send in a team, that sent detectable spells here and there, went in and out with objects that clicked and buzzed, but found absolutely nothing but his own magical print. Once, they brought a specialist from the netherlands, that shrugged and went away. After an entire month, the Ministry decided to call it off. Every object in the house had been looked into. They told him there was nothing suspicious going on, that everything would turn out fine. Paranoid, he overheard some of the Aurors saying when they thought he wasn’t listening. And then he was alone again. He had been called that before, and it was why Hermione assured him she was still researching, going through her library on how to go into a house incognitus in every possible way. But so far, there was nothing to be done.

He tried to distract himself, tried to put things on his mind that wouldn’t race his heart and make every intake of breath feel like he was underwater, drowning. He pushed away the anxiety, bought some novels to read, watched a bunch of uninteresting TV - why did Dudley like this thing so much, anyways? - and listened to more music he had in his research period. He even bought himself a Nintendo 64, and played until he fell asleep on the roughest night.

He kept going to the bar, talking to his friends, drinking a pint or two, but as the anxiety kept kicking in, and then he had to go back. There was no telling them why he felt like he did. There was no muggle worrying about potential criminal magic occurrences inside of ones house. They worried about things he wouldn’t ever - paying rents, going home in the dark, and avoiding letting people know who their actual partners were.

After a particular rough night, he went home not past eleven, and tried to shower his worries away. As he pulled his ever-clean black tee over his head, he heard the doorbell ring. Shit. Did one of the girls follow him? Could any other muggle want something with him? At least, he knew, it was hardly a wizard. Not even Hermione would ever ring a doorbell, and she was a muggleborn. Some of the spells should have ringed if it was a trap too.

He took a settling deep breath and stuffed his wand on the right pocket of his trousers, going down the stairs quickly. Heart pounding in his chest, he opened the door just enough so he could see. Leaning on the wall right by the side of his door was something he would never expect. He recognized the long blond hair, a trucker hat positioned on top of it, and gasped. It was the guy from the bar, the one he had never talked to, let alone gave his address to.

When he turned to look at the opening door, the shock was even bigger. Bright grey eyes stared at him, expressionless, while his thins lips crisped in such a familiar way, it made him nauseated. Memories flew through Harry’s head in a second, flooding him with the obviety of the face he kept seeing on the back of his mind as he looked around the crowded bar, the hair that was the only thing he remembered when he woke up at night from some dreams, the posture that made the hair on his neck stand up with a hinge of arousal. Of course, he had the Black features. Of course he had the kind of beauty you only expected to see in wizard people.

“Potter” he only said.

Outside of his door, was standing Draco sodding Malfoy.

(Part I, Part II, Part III) Harry took a step back, motioning the man to come in. Frustration was raising up in his blood. It wasn’t just because of the stupidity of not recognizing a guy who went to school with him for years, or even daydreaming about his archenemy, but how he thought he had pulled away of the wizarding world and got caught red handed in his muggle safe place. Draco moved slowly, looking around the house. His eyebrows furrowed the longer it got. Harry let him, not knowing what to say. Part of him wanted to shout at Draco for barging into his life, invading the sacred little world he had built. Part of him just wanted to know what the hell the git was doing in his living room. But mostly, what was the problem in seeing his house, after all?

“It’s not a manor, Malfoy, but I bet you have seen worse.” He mumbled in a bitter tone, as he closed the door and walked to the living room, letting the blonde standing alone at the hall. Harry tried not to think about how the features were all there, the Malfoy high standing and the elegant and slow fidgeting with long fingers.

“But it is, isn’t it? How did you do it? And why here?” Draco seemed confused and a little outraged, but Harry had no idea what it was all about. “I mean, it just doesn’t sound smart, considering the statute of secrecy…”

“What are you talking about?”

“What am I- Oh, Merlin, you don’t know, do you?”

“I don’t know what?!” Draco Malfoy, the one who always knows everything about every-fucking-thing was standing in his living room. Life was great. That was not what he had died for. Nor what he had been to therapy for. He could punch someone right now, probably Malfoy. It was his house, after all, wasn’t it?

“How can you always be so fucking clueless, Harry? This is a wizarding house!” At least, Draco was not laughing at him. He was exasperated. And he was calling him Harry all of sudden. That threw him out of balance.

“Of course it is, Malfoy.” He marked the name on purpose. “I’m a wizard, and I live here. And the house is fine, okay? The Ministry has been here and checked for every kind of threat there could be. Did you just come to make a point about the magical qualities of my house?”

Draco shook his head and sat his head down on one of the couches. He held his head on his head, breathing deeply. When he spoke again, his voice was calmer, getting back to the passive-aggressive tone their conversations always carried.

“No. I came here to ask you what the fuck you were doing at Fortuna today.”

“Eating pepperoni pizza.”

“No, you were not. You were talking to everyone like you owned the place.”

“So? I’m friends with the owners.” Again, Harry couldn’t understand what was going on. He just knew how mad he was. “I should ask you what you were doing there the other night.”

“What? It’s my favorite bar! Is Jack a wizard?”

“No, and that’s the point, Malfoy. It’s a muggle bar.” Harry took off his glasses and pointed them at the other man. “Not a place for a Malfoy.”

He saw Malfoy’s lips crisp again, and he was quiet for a minute before sighing and looking at him with an annoyed expression. Clearly someone’s autocontrol got better with time, and the fact that it wasn’t Harry’s was even more enerving.

“And you are saying you didn’t notice I haven’t shown up in the wizarding world for years.”

“Should I - you haven’t?”

“No, I have been living as a muggle since the war, Harry. Everyone knows it.”

He didn’t. Of course Harry hadn’t noticed Malfoy’s absence, that would require going places, talking to people, shaking hands. And the gossip hadn’t reached him either. That would require actually talking to someone outside the Weasley circle, asking about other people. And again, the idiot kept calling him Harry. Now Draco Malfoy was living in the muggle world and being friendly. An alert ranged in the brunette’s head, saying it was some kind of scheme, but he knew he was wrong. There was nothing - nothing - in Malfoy’s voice that sound untrue. Even the way he said ‘muggle’ had no malice, as if the word was common in his vocabulary, something with no value - not good and not bad, as one would talk about the weather. Harry scratched his head. His anger dissipated slowly, running down his spine. He heard his voice asking why, in a whisper he didn’t intend to let go. Malfoy gulped, but answered without averting his eyes.

“I just couldn’t go back… After the trials, with Father in Askaban, and Mother trying to make any sense out of that fucking house…  Everything I knew was fucked up. I couldn’t go to Greg’s after what happened with Vince, and Pansy and Blaise were both trying to act like nothing had happened. I was alone, so I needed… I needed something new.” That was a side of the slytherin Harry never knew. He was blunt and honest, like he had nothing else to lose. Like he had no ulterior motives for being there, for having this conversation. “I don’t expect you to relate. But if you are following me to find out - I’m not doing anything. Hell, I’m barely even doing magic. I’m a fucking journalist, Harry. A muggle one!”

“I know. Music, right?” He mumbled again.

“So you were following me.” Malfoy threw a hand through his long blond hair, pushing it out of his face. He seemed… sad? “Some things never change, I guess.”

“I wasn’t. The girls told me. Ellie and Chiara.” Harry’s voice was cold and tired, as he processed all the information. It seemed to rub on Draco, as he shivered a little, and the blankets on the couch wrapped around him. He snuggled in for a second, before it startled him.

“Why is your bloody house answering to me?” Draco looked to the kitchen as two cups of tea were flying in their direction and settling in the nearest table.

“Hm, because it’s magical?”

“That’s not how it works, a house should only answer to the family that owns it.” He paused for a second, a shadow crossing his eyes. “And whoever they give ownership to.”

“I didn’t give you ownership, I just let you in.”

“Yeah, you couldn’t have. But your house thinks I own it, look-” Malfoy then proceeded to put the fire out and on again, open and close curtains and generally making everything look like a bad muggle horror movie. “How did you say you turned it, by the way?”

“I didn’t do anything. No one did.” The blond froze listening to Harry’s answer. He looked around again, fear changing his features to something closer to the face the gryffindor had grown accustomed to. “Really, Hermione called the Aurors, they were here for over a month… There’s nothing here without my magical signature and I didn’t do anything.”

“As far as I know, only the founding families could have a Wizarding House, and only if they didn’t have any other home. The manor is enchanted, but not our summer cottage. And they only respected the rightful heirs of each family. This house recognized your magic as heir magic and let it take over the place. But I don’t think the Potter’s were a founding family...“

“We came from the Peverell’s.” The blond threw him a side glance, now walking around in circles, one finger touching his lips as he thought.

“I know that, thank you. Did the Potter’s leave you a house?”

“No. My parents’ house was destroyed when -” Harry pointed his scar with a shake of his hand. “No, the only house I had was Grimmauld’s Place.”

“Oh, the Black House.” Malfoy stopped again. “Oh. Is it there? Have you been there?”

“No, we can’t go there. It’s for sale.”

“Is it sold?”

“Not yet.”

“So of course we can go there, for fuck’s sake, Potter. Let’s go.”

Breathing was getting a little harder. Harry closed his eyes, trying to get his heart rate down, as Mr. Argus had taught him. Flashes of the house’s inside, and staring at the door without being able to open it, kept invading his mind, mixing up with the images he was projecting of laughing at his friends’ place and walking around muggle London.

“I can’t.”

Harry felt Malfoy approaching, getting not a foot far away from his body. He could feel heat coming from his body, and the smell that flooded his senses was no help in finding the air to breathe. Fucking hormones.

“Are you scared of a house, now, Potter?”

The name change was finally settling, even though the calm and fake malice were not the usual he expected of slytherins. There was no aim to hurt, it was pure mockery, almost flirtatious. He focused on what he could deal with at the moment.

“Hm, I thought you were insisting on calling me Harry now.”

“And I noticed you didn’t really like it. We need to check on the house, Potter.”

Harry rolled his eyes behind his eyelids. What a insistent prat.

“I can’t go there because I don’t know if I can get out. I spent three years locked up inside that house.”

“Three years? The last three years? Who locked you up?” Malfoy kept asking questions, trying to add up the facts and keep on his mystery solving campaign. He didn’t make an effort to put some distance between them and pace the room again, unfortunately.

“No one. I just didn’t want to… I couldn’t. Get out, I mean. It’s called panic syndrome.” There was a pause.

“I think it’s not there anymore.”

“The panic?”

“The house, Harry.”

Harry opened his eyes. Malfoy’s face was serious, a bit of concern hiding behind a made up blank face. He started to understand it then. If something had happened to the Black house, then the Black’s would need a new one. The magic would settle somewhere else. And Malfoy… Malfoy was a black heir too. In a weird twisted way, the git was in his clan, his… family. Life was really ironic. He took one last deep breath and held Malfoy’s right arm.

“Don’t let me come inside.”

“I won’t.”

Day 28

Korra/Tarrlok

"Regret" 

[noun]

3. a sense of loss, disappointment, dissatisfaction, etc.

4. a feeling of sorrow or remorse for a fault, act, loss, disappointment, etc.

(Definition from victoriousvocabulary) 

Korra and Tarrlok's respective povs during the ride to the isolated cabin in his Satomabile van after their encounter in "When Extremes Meet." Korrlok of a sort, much more platonic than I usually write. ;D 

  Korra pov

I’ll admit it; I lost my head in coming over here in the dark of the night to confront Tarrlok. I’ll also admit, as I lay here trapped in the back of his Satomobile van, on the road to who knows where, that it was wrong of me to push him this far.

As I struggled against my bonds the memory of his face rises into my vision, making me recoil and scowl at the same time. His hair was all messy from our encounter; his eyes dark and menacing, but in their depths was fragments of fear.

In the midst of my own fear and anger, lying there in the van I began to think. Why had matters gone so badly between Tarrlok and myself? Why did I leave the Task Force? Had it been right to do so?

I can’t even remember now the exact circumstances behind my deciding to abandon him, leaving him alone in his own pursuit of Amon, but I had a feeling now that my reasons for leaving were nebulous. My excuse to him had probably been that I’d been needed in the pro-bending arena with Bolin and Mako, or that Tenzin had encouraged me to leave so that I could study my airbending training, but I was always too BUSY spending time with the pro-bending brothers to pay much attention to that.

My mind went back to the moment when I’d turned in my resignation to Tarrlok. He’d lifted those bright blue eyes of his to mine, his jaw tightening slightly as he took the paper from me, but I still intercepted the tremble of sorrow in his eyes. At that time, I’d merely wondered why he’d been so upset over my resignation, but I never paid much thought to it later – until the time came when he pushed me too hard over my own little Task Force with my Krew. He’d arrested my friends for really no reason except to try and gain some leverage over me, why wouldn’t I be angry at him over that?

But, unfortunately, I tend to be a person who lets their emotions hold sway over them, and so I’d gone to his office, pushing him too hard just for the sick satisfaction of intimidating him like he’d intimidated me earlier, but that had lead to him attacking me because I’d pressed one of his buttons a  bit too hard.

So, being compared to Amon is a bit touchy for him, but even so he shouldn’t have attacked me! I’m the Avatar!

You attacked him too, just not with your fists; a quiet voice in my mind chided me, making me begin to feel discouraged. You attacked him by threatening him and pushing him to the brink with your venomous words. He’s right, you’re just like him.

I shook my head at the thoughts encroaching within me, refusing to believe them, wanting to deny the truth of them.

You go to full extremes to get what you want, just like he does – isn’t that what you did with Mako? With that kiss that hurt Bolin? And his girlfriend, but you haven’t cared a bit about her, have you?

The thoughts continue to batter at me in the silence of the van, forcing me to recognise my errors over the past months to my friends and to the man who I’d just pushed an invisible button of his so much that he had caused him to retaliate so far as to kidnapping me. The bloodbending had been a surprise, but that wasn’t on my mind at the moment; all I knew was that this was all my fault.

Regret overwhelmed me as I imagined Tarrlok sitting in the front seat of the car, his jaw set and his mouth in a thin line as he drove me somewhere no one could find me. Small tears escaped from my eyes as I whispered in the darkness of the trunk, “I’m sorry, Tarrlok.”

  Tarrlok pov

I hadn’t expected this at all; that it would come to this, our relationship, because so far everything had been going fairly well between us – working side by side on the Task Force, training the members in ambushing principles, having her stop by my office sometimes to discuss political matters with me or, more importantly, work on some plan that would bring Amon to his feet before the two of us – until that moment she entered my office with a resignation paper in hand. I accepted it well enough, I’d thought, but as the days passed with no Korra on the Task Force or just brief visits I began to feel her loss keenly. Resentment began to grow in my heart for her betrayal, her abandonment of me just when I needed her most.

I’ll be honest; I don’t see anything wrong with enforcing the law for nonbenders, like the curfew I upheld. They face no danger from Amon in all this turmoil inflicting our great city like the benders do, this was only trying to protect them as best I can. And Korra had to see it all, becoming all uppity with me when I lost my temper, arresting her friends to try and bring her in line.

Her remark that “You’re just like Amon” had cut to my quick. Without thinking I had attacked her with a water slice but she’d soon gotten the under hand. I flinched again at the memory of her running towards me, taunting me about my lack of water, her palms full of fire – she meant to burn me…. Or kill me.

Yiss at long last!!! 

This chapter was so amazing!!!!! 

Augghh Korra's dream is so realistic and surrealistic and heartbreaking!!!! 

All my flangsty feels!!! 

Her writing is so magnificent and the dream sequence and Korra's dream vision of a boat.... and then the smuttiness at the end... this is an amazing story, GO READ IT!!! :D