[PODFIC] Quiet Enough for the Soul to Speak | 5 Hrs
After years of struggling alone as his wife loses the battle with her illness, Draco finds himself and his young son caught in a storm, forced to seek out the help of someone most unlikely to give it. He doesn’t realise until years later that he was spared from more than just the rain.
Written and read for this beautiful art by my dear friend Draykray.
Merry Christmas @draykray!
Preview under the cut
“Malfoy, genuinely, I fear for your hair follicles," Harry said.
“Who gives a fuck about my damn hair follicles! I’m stranded in the middle of a storm, at a house that isn’t mine, with someone who hates me while my child sleeps in the next room unknowing that his mother is slowly fading away from him even as I stand here, completely fucking useless because I haven’t got my magic, and even if I did, I couldn’t save her anymore than all the mediwixes on Earth—!” his voice choked off and he turned around, hiding the emotion that had suddenly sprung up, pricking his eyes, quickening his breath. “I don’t fucking care about my hair or my wet jumper or the blasted hair dryer, I just—!”
He exhaled all the breath in his lungs and inhaled with an audible note, covering his eyes with his hand as he tried to keep his feelings from overcoming him. His chin trembled, and he clenched his jaw, breathing through his nose, though his lungs burned, eyelashes damp. They stood there in silence as Draco pretended not to cry and hoped that Potter would allow him the courtesy of not asking questions.
The fire crackled in front of him, noisy, though the logs showed no sign of wear. He’d forgotten what an enchanted fire looked like, after having no use for one for so long—unable to floo anywhere himself, and Astoria too unwell to travel. He jumped as he felt a hand on the front of his, looking down as Potter took the comb from his hand, then shut his eyes, reached up to wipe his damp cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” Potter said. “I didn’t know about Astoria.”
Throat tight with emotion, Draco couldn’t answer, shaking his head instead, waving Potter away as he braced his hand on the mantel. He didn’t breathe for several long moments, trying to tame himself, feeling jittery and alarmed that he had disclosed so much, and not wanting to say anything else. Then, he felt a tugging at his hair, the prongs of the comb scraping his shoulder as Potter worked the knots that Draco had only made worse.
“Just cut it off. I don’t care,” Draco said, but Potter didn’t answer, and instead continued to comb it carefully while Draco stared at the fire, incapable of saying anything else.
Lightning flashed, followed several seconds later by booming thunder, and Draco’s ears perked, waiting for Scorpius to cry before he remembered that Potter had most likely set the silencing charm on his cot just like he’d done for Rose. He exhaled a relieved breath, felt the prongs of the comb at the base of his head, a chill going down his neck as his cold hair dripped and soaked into the collar of his jumper. Lightning and thunder came again in waves as they stood by the fire, knot after knot untangled.
“The storm is moving away,” Potter said eventually. “You can tell by how slowly the thunder follows. It’s supposed to be a kilometre per second, so you can count on the next flash how many kilometres away the storm is.”
“That’s a myth to give children something to do instead of worrying about the storm.”
Potter huffed out a laugh, and Draco felt the teeth of the comb brush the crown of his head, strokes smooth as it ran from the root of his hair to the ends, over and over again.
“Maybe the ratio isn’t exact, but the theory is there. The longer the time between, the further away the storm, and the seconds are growing longer. The last one was eight seconds—” he cut off as lightning brightened the room, counting out loud all the way to eleven. “There. See? A little bit further.”
“I’m not a child. You don’t have to entertain me.”
Potter didn’t answer as he picked up the hair dryer, turned it on, combed through Draco’s hair as he began to dry it. Something hot writhed in Draco’s chest like a biting snake and he clung to the mantel to control himself, pressing his mouth together to keep back angry words—swears that would get Potter to leave him alone—stop doing these pointless tasks that meant nothing when his whole world was falling apart. He shut his eyes, felt heat behind his eyelids again, choked on his breath as he inhaled the burnt smell from the hair dryer.
He stood in silence until his hair was dry, and Potter lifted it up, directing the heat from the dryer onto the back of his jumper. Lightning came again, and Draco unwillingly counted the seconds in his mind until the thunder rang out, feeling the tension in his neck ease a bit when he got past twenty. He looked toward the window, unable to tell if rain was still pattering there over the whirr of the motor. Potter shut it off as if reading his thoughts, and they stood in silence, listening.