When Draco finds him, Harry is sitting on a quiet hillside, gazing out across a loch. The sun is still low above the mountaintops, and Harry is still wearing his pyjama top beneath his hastily-buttoned jacket. It's two weeks since the war ended, twenty days since their first kiss, and he's been crying.

Draco sits down on the grass beside him, quietly, without saying a word. Harry doesn't move; he is statue-still, only his hair stirring slightly in the breeze to show that he is human. He shows no sign of having noticed that Draco is there. Draco settles onto the grass, wincing slightly as his leg momentarily takes his weight and the dull ache flares in a sullen, purple stab of pain. (Teach you to speak like that to our Master, boy – drunken laughter and drawn wands, his father stony-faced from the sidelines) It passes. The breeze is cool, the grass is damp and soft. The air smells like mist and heather. He can wait.

It doesn't take long. He is gazing out across the water when Harry's voice breaks the silence by the loch.

"It feels strange." He sounds surprised, a little.

"What does?" Draco can see an island in the loch. There are trees, and a tiny beach, with smooth, foam-tipped waves curling up and over the sand. White horses, reborn over and over again. Running. Vanishing. Gone.

"This. Being. It's over now, isn't it?"

"I hope so."

"It's all done. He's dead. We're safe." And what does that mean, boy? Whispers in Draco's mind, laughing. Safe? Think your father'll protect you? Your bitch mother? He fucked it up with our Lord, boy, and you're ours –

(Two weeks since the war ended, twenty days since their first kiss. Thirty-seven since he sneaked past the guards at the Manor grounds with a broom and eight new scars. Thirty-five since a hunted-looking man who smelt of Polyjuice took a second glance at a bundle of white-blond hair and bloodied robes on a London street and said, "Malfoy?")

"Maybe."

"Hn."

Without taking his eyes off the island, Draco moves his hand across the grass. He knows better than to try and do anything more direct, after seeing Harry's rictus smiles as he was grabbed, hugged, wept over, congratulated in the weeks after the battle. Harry doesn't like to be touched much any more. So when his hand sneaks out to twine with Draco's, Draco knows its worth, and stays silent. He tightens his fingers, and feels an answering squeeze.

His fingers are calloused from gripping his broom, which is lying in the grass behind them. They're cold, too; he must have left the castle before sunrise and flown fast in the chill air to avoid the hordes of well-wishers trailing him. Draco only found him because he knew where he'd be going.

"So... what do I do now?" A tremble to the voice, a desperation. What do I do?

"I have no idea."

The mist is coming in from the loch, white and roiling, shrouding the distant mountains on the other side. It's quiet, the distant cry of the birds the only sound. Draco breathes in the damp smell of the Scottish morning, and says, abruptly, "I'll miss this, you know."

Harry takes a moment to fully process his meaning, twists around to look at him, eyes wide. "You're leaving?"

Draco nods. Harry looks down, his fingers still meshed with Draco's.

"Where are you going?"

"I thought Russia."

"Russia?"

"Russia," Draco confirms.

Harry looks at him. "Why?"

He shrugs. "It's cold there. I like cold. And I heard they have horses there. White ones. I like horses, too. And space. Space to fly."

The mist has come down now, thick and white, obscuring the island from view. The smell of rain and heather is stronger than ever.

"How will you get there?"

"No idea."

"Have you got enough money?"

Draco starts to nod, indignant, then stops. Thinks of his father, skull-and-snake adorning his arm. Thinks of Aurors, wands drawn, and of traitors, and of what happens to them. Thinks of the Manor, burning in the dark.

"Probably not."

Harry laughs, quietly.

"When do you leave?"

Draco looks at him. "Now?"

Harry looks back.

He thinks of Russia. Of coldness, and snow, and white horses. Of endless clear spaces to fly. Of white-blond hair and grey eyes, and uncertainty, and things that are new and strange and different.

He thinks of Ginny, and friends, and Grimmauld Place. Safe.

Maybe he should stop thinking.

"Sounds good," he says, and Draco smiles.


A/N - No, I do not own Harry Potter or any related material, and I am fairly certain that I never shall. I do, however, own a copy of Deathly Hallows which has suffered a terrible accident. It seems to be missing an epilogue. Tragic. Oh, whatever shall I do. Woe is me. Really.