We Are Legend

Harry came up the stairs, a bowl of raspberries in his hand. The white porcelain had the Malfoy crest painted on the inside, where dust had been collecting. Harry didn't think that Malfoy had used the dishes in years. Last night he had made sure that Malfoy ate, but then they had both been in their phoenixes's shapes, picking up grains from the floor. There was something to be said for birdseed in its undigested form, Harry had to admit, as he recalled the sweet, almost honeyed taste of oat on his tongue.

Malfoy sat on the floor close to the bed, teacup in hand, in a blurry circle of morning light streaming in through the window. It promised to be another clear and sunny day. The weather gods must be celebrating, too, now that Voldemort was gone.

"Breakfast?" Harry put the bowl down, pulled Malfoy's blue robes closer around his body and sat down as well, behind Malfoy, leaning against the bed. "Phoenix's favourite," he added, and Malfoy smiled at him from over the rim of the cup.

They ate in silence. On the other side of the tower room, the egg was barely visible in the huge phoenix nest. There was the faint glow of the fire, the incense's spicy fragrance wafted over with each stirring of the wind. It will be fine, Malfoy had assured Harry during the night, telling him all he had learned from Scamander's book, all that he knew about phoenix breeding.

This morning Malfoy seemed lost in thought, the way his eyes drifted off towards the window, always searching the horizon. Harry followed his gaze, but all he could see was sun, light blue sky, a few clouds drifting by. It made him itch to spread Phoenix's wings and fly.

Earlier, in the cold, crystal clear light of the hour just before dawn, he had held Malfoy close in his arms and asked, "Are you ready to go?"

"I don't think I'll ever be ready," Malfoy had replied.

Me neither, Harry had meant to say, but of course it wasn't the same for him. Harry had a hard time letting go, holding on to life like he'd always been holding on to everything, places, people, promises, bloody prophecies even. He still couldn't think of Sirius without his heart skipping a beat, he couldn't look at an owl without seeing a bit of Hedwig in it. Hell, he still talked to Hermione after fifty-three years. And Ron – there had been days when Harry had looked at his shadow and seen Ron's shadow behind it, with him always, right up to the end.

Looking out over London, Harry felt curious questions stir in his thoughts – what about the Dementors, the Inferi? Who would be the new Minister for Magic? Would they turn Sanctuary into Hogwarts again, re-open the venerable School of Witchcraft and Wizardry? Would Aunt Timila's daughters come back from Mumbai? But all of this was no longer his life. He was still here only because of a Spell, a Spell that was faintly, but constantly draining his magic.

Malfoy? It was very different for Malfoy. Nothing kept him here, in this life, except maybe his feathered friends. Harry had only seen glimpses of the Blue Phoenix's involvement with the birds: Malfoy mentioning the eagles, his acquaintance with the bird Animagus, the Secret Keeper of Voldemort's hiding place. None of that had struck Harry as bonds that Malfoy would find hard to leave behind. No, Harry was certain, Malfoy would go at once, happily, if it were not for the fire. Malfoy was plain afraid. Which was odd, really, considering all that he had gone through, but that was easy for Harry to say, wasn't it? He had died twice already. God, he was becoming some kind of an expert at dying.

Harry chuckled as he popped another raspberry into his mouth, enjoying its acerbic sweetness, stronger even with the memory of what the fruit tasted like for the phoenix.

Malfoy turned to him, long fingers around the cup, the porcelain a sharp white against the black of his trousers. The spattering of hair on his chest gleamed golden in the sunlight. We will go together, Harry thought, and he had said as much to Malfoy last night.

"Something amusing that you want to tell me, Potter?"

Harry shook his head. "Just some deep, silly thoughts."

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, moved his teacup encouragingly. "Well?" he said, putting a hand on Harry's knee that was covered by the robes.

"Do you think somewhere there is a painting with the two of us in it?" The question had come from nowhere, but of course Harry's mind was already moving on, asking questions about the future when the present was no longer for him. Telling Malfoy that there was something beyond the fire. That paintings allowed the dead to speak with the living, and they, too, allowed the dead to speak with the dead.

"Pretty deep thoughts, profound even, I can tell." That sharp, mocking tone, fiercely at odds with Malfoy's intimate touch as his hand moved up Harry's thigh. "I guess there must be pictures of the Slytherin and Gryffindor Quidditch teams from our year. With both of us in it, hating each other's guts, no doubt." He smirked at Harry, but quickly became serious again. "If they survived the demolition of Hogwarts, that is."

"They did," Harry said. "The trophy room was part of the Unplottable section. It was found untouched under the ruins." There was another picture, of course, printed in the Daily Prophet and reprinted in each one of Skeeter's biographies: taken at Malfoy's trial, the first one, when Draco Malfoy had been acquitted of all charges, because of Harry's testimony. The picture captured the moment when Harry had given Malfoy back his wand, after the trial, in the Ministry's Atrium. There had been a stray beam of light coming from the magicked glass ceiling, reflecting on Malfoy's hair and Harry's glasses. It had given the picture a kind of ethereal quality, making it a symbol after the war, representing the fervent hopes of the wizarding world for reconciliation. Harry was sure that somewhere there existed a painting of it.

"Shit, I will even visit that bloody picture, just so I can see you," Malfoy said softly, "boy hero and all." He leaned back and kissed Harry lightly.

The flavour of raspberries and tea, so familiar, so much a part of Malfoy's distinctive taste. And underneath – cinnamon, sharp and sweet, always. Harry felt his own body humming as he kissed Malfoy back, eager for his tongue, his warm breath. "Since when can you read my mind?" he murmured.

"You've always been way too easy to read." Malfoy's voice was low and husky as he moved closer to Harry, knelt between his legs, touched Harry's face, gently removed his glasses. "Don't worry about making this easier for me, Potter. I'll be fine once we're in the air." He kissed Harry again, with a need that made Harry pull him closer eagerly. When they broke apart, Malfoy turned his head towards the window, he squinted into the sun that was rapidly climbing into the sky. Then he surprised Harry by settling between his legs, his back against Harry's chest. He took Harry's hand, pressed it against his groin. Malfoy's cock was hard and straining against the tight fit of his trousers. He leaned his head against Harry's shoulder, brought his mouth to his ear. "But there is one thing you can do for me," he whispered.

Harry slowly moved his hands down the insides of Malfoy's thighs, then carefully opened the fly. Malfoy groaned when his cock sprang from the confining cloth. He didn't wear any pants, and the feel of his naked skin beneath the rough wool sent a sharp thrill through Harry as he pulled off the trousers. He put his arms around Malfoy's body, wrapping him into the sleeves of the robes, eager to get his hands back on him. They had fucked during the night, more than once, but the need was back, as strong as ever, to have Malfoy come, for him, with him. Harry moved his palms over the scars on Malfoy's chest, over his nipples, kissed his hair, as the other man shuddered under his touch.

"God, I can't get enough of you," he whispered, pulling Malfoy's body close for a moment before he slid his hands down to his stomach. "You're bloody gorgeous when you come."

Malfoy turned his head, looked at him with eyes hazy and dark with desire. "Don't be ridiculous," he murmured, "you're the pretty one here." He reached for Harry's face, traced his jaw, his left ear, buried his fingers in Harry's hair.

Harry started stroking Malfoy's cock slowly, firmly, delighting in the feel of the hot, hard flesh. Malfoy's hips moved to the rhythm of his strokes in leisurely, unhurried thrusts. Sweat gathered at his throat and on his chest, his hands found Harry's thighs underneath the robes, he was digging into naked skin. His breathing went ragged, he licked hungrily at Harry's neck. A shiver ran through his body, as the first drop of pre-come oozed from his cock. Harry slid the tight foreskin back, rubbed his thumb lightly over the wet slit, and Malfoy pushed his hips up, moaned, "Make me, make me come ..." the last word a deep groan as Harry wrapped his fingers around Malfoy's tightly contracted balls. Malfoy's body arched, his slippery cock was thrusting wildly into Harry's hand. It took only a couple of strokes to bring him off. His head fell back, he cried out Harry's name, his whole body shaken by violent convulsions. Spunk shot in a low arc onto his chest and belly, drops of it splattered hot and white over Harry's fingers.

The next moment, Malfoy's body went fluid and light, as he relaxed against Harry. Low after-throbs of pleasure pulsed within the silken flesh of his sac that Harry still cradled in one hand. He couldn't help looking at Malfoy's face gone soft, almost blurry with release, all guards down, his eyes closed, his mouth loose and slack, half-opened lips still trembling ever so lightly. Harry just had to catch those lips with his own, drinking in the small wordless sounds. Malfoy's body twisted as he reached up into Harry's hair again, and with a strength Harry didn't think anyone could muster so shortly after orgasm he pulled him close. The next moment they were rolling on the floor and kissing hard. Malfoy squeezed his hand between their bodies, reaching for Harry's cock. And Harry had hardly noticed how hard he was, how turned on by the sharp, masculine smell of Malfoy's arousal, by his body moving against Harry in that languid, deliciously arousing way, by Malfoy, coming into his hands. He was getting light-headed, from kissing for so long and not coming up for air. But there was no way he could stop kissing Malfoy now, not when Malfoy's whole body was moulded against him, effortlessly, easily, like he belonged nowhere else but here, close to Harry, skin touching skin where the robes had fallen open. Malfoy caressed his cock, and Harry felt the tips of feathers touch him, the Blue Phoenix in his mind, in his blood, like it had been each time they'd made love, ever since they had fucked in their Animagus form, ever since they'd had sex as the birds do. He cried out, the memory as real as Malfoy's touch, he gasped for air, pulling Malfoy even closer as he came, the keen pleasure whipping through him like sharp hail, like a high wind tearing the clouds apart.

In the quiet, the sunlight was like water. Harry's breath made it move in soft rippling waves. On the floor beside him, Malfoy's hair stirred, a stark white in the bright light, and Harry released him from his hold, suddenly aware how hard he was clutching the other man towards him. Malfoy brought his hand up, traced the outline of Harry's mouth, making Harry taste the bitterness of his own come. Raspberries were rolling across the floor, from the bowl they had knocked over when they'd gone down. Malfoy picked one up, crushed it between his fingers and smeared the moist mess onto Harry's lips.

"You," he whispered, his voice rough and shaking. Slowly he moved his tongue over Harry's lips, licked away the fruit, only to have its taste flood Harry's mouth when Malfoy kissed him deeply.

They broke apart, with Harry still trying to get his breath back. The sun was shining into Malfoy's face, making his eyes gleam silver. Harry pushed the damp strands of hair from Malfoy's forehead, brought their heads close. "I'll come back as an evil ghost if there is nothing like this where we are going," he said, surprising himself with the words.

Malfoy laughed quietly. "There's more than sex, I told you."

"Right. Needle pricks. I remember that one well." Harry moved his hands over Malfoy's come-covered belly, wrapped them around his twitching cock.

"Oh, shut up, Potter." Malfoy took Harry's hands away from his groin, but didn't let go of them as he sat up.

Harry looked at him from the floor, the outlines of his human shape dark blue against the morning light. "Ready to go now?" he asked softly. Malfoy's fingers around his hands were cold.

Malfoy turned towards the window and looked directly into the sun. "We have a couple of hours left." He got up, taking Harry with him. "Come on, Potter, let's make some good use of them."

Harry let himself be pulled up, leaning against Malfoy with shaky knees. The robes on the floor looked like the spread-out wings of the Blue Phoenix. "Doing what?" he asked.

Malfoy was staring at the horizon again, his arm at its usual place around Harry's waist. "Well," he said, his voice light and only slightly teasing, "fuck, fly, eat, obviously. Fuck some more, perhaps. You get first choice, Potter."

The light blue was calling to Harry, sunlight streaming onto his skin. If only all the choices in his life had been that easy to make. He turned to Malfoy, looked into grey eyes glittering with joy. "So beautiful," Malfoy whispered as Harry's body burst into red and gold, shaking feathers, taking wing, a plunge from St Paul's into the sky, the Blue Phoenix in his wake.

*

They stood hand in hand by the round window of the tower. Malfoy was naked, his hair open and flying in the wind. Harry had put on the clothes he had worn yesterday – and it had been only yesterday, an eternity ago – when he had killed Voldemort. It didn't matter as they'd be Transfiguring anyway. But somehow it felt right to Harry to go like this, dressed in Muggle clothing, like he had for most of his life. Malfoy had smiled when Harry had slipped into his clothes, nodding in silent understanding.

They didn't kiss one last time. They had done that earlier, wrapped in the flitting shadows of the four-poster bed. They didn't say a word of good-bye, because this wasn't good-bye. And they had already said all that could be said. But Malfoy was holding on to Harry's hand, so tightly it hurt.

We will be all right, he said in his mind, projecting the words by Legilimency.

Yes, Malfoy said. Open your mind for me.

Harry pulled down all his defences. He felt Malfoy trying to hold back some of the intensity of his emotions, but the fear was clearly discernable underneath his hopeful expectancy, his exhilaration even.

Ready to fly? Harry asked, and Malfoy answered, Ready.

At midday, when the sun was highest in the sky, they soared up into the wide blue above St Paul's, a phoenix the colour of night, a phoenix scarlet and gleaming gold like fire.

Below them, there was a short ripple in the fabric of time, a gust of wind, a brief halt in the slow drift of the clouds. But they never noticed it as they soared ever higher into the sky. Soon the city below them was a cluster of multi-coloured specks with the black ribbon of the river curving through them. And Malfoy had been right about flying, Harry thought, with the wind beneath his wings lifting him higher and higher. One stroke made him shoot forward like an arrow released from the bow. The speed was unbelievable, the way they darted through rain-hung clouds with barely a drop of water sticking to them.

Higher, Draco said. I knew you'd love this, but our way is up. He was so close that the tip of his right wing was almost touching Harry's left.

Harry was so full of an overwhelming, intoxicating joy, it felt like he would burst from it. He shot up into the sky, the wings pressed close to his light, strong body, then plunged down again to where the Blue Phoenix was soaring steadily upwards. He sensed Draco's silent chuckle and flew closer to him, actually made their wings touch, which had them both tumble through the thin blue air. Draco called out with his high-pitched bird voice, a fiercely happy sound, and the same joy was within him, flashing through Harry's mind like a sharp silver light. He is all right, Harry thought, and almost immediately felt Draco respond, I am. Stop worrying, Potter. Now rise, rise, bennu.

They passed through a thick bank of billowing clouds, heavy and full with the rain of tomorrow. When they emerged from it, endless space opened around them, the air so thin, it seemed like the sky they were rushing through was made from translucent, liquid glass. Draco was leading the way now, up towards the brightness that lay ahead.

At one point Harry thought he saw the turrets and roofs of a gleaming city of clouds. Heliopolis, Draco said. That's where we would go if we were true phoenixes.

But we go further …

... further, into the fire.

They reached another bank of hazy clouds, made of hot, shimmering air, and plunged through it. After a moment of heat so intense Harry thought it would burn them, they were flying inside a sphere of light. At the horizon, blue flames flickered within shifting layers of air, reflecting rainbow slivers, a colourful, steaming ring of fire. In front of them, a ruby shone at the core of a white blinding light, so brilliant Harry had to turn his eyes away.

Harry, Draco whispered, ready to move on?

Their eyes met as Harry looked over to him, imprinting the vision of the Blue Phoenix on his mind forever. Yes, I am ready, he said. And Malfoy, the name a memory and a promise, sweet and sharp as cinnamon.

The tips of their wings touched, and then it was their fingers, touching. Heat scorched their human skin, singed their human hair, jet-black like raven feathers, white-blond like snow in the desert. Their hands were holding on to each other, as their bodies were hurdled towards the ruby heart of the sun.

In another moment, they burst into flame, flickering blue, sparkling red –

Burning Day.

*

She would have known that black colour hair, those green eyes anywhere. When the tall woman in army fatigues entered her diner, Aunt Timila recognised Harry's granddaughter at once. He had told her of the "girl" – a grown woman really! – how she was running Sanctuary like a boot camp. All decent wizarding kind were returning to London, and Aunt Timila should have expected people come asking about Harry Potter. About Flash Man. Still, when she saw the woman standing in the door, framed by the morning sun behind her, she missed Harry so much it made her heart ache. The woman walked straight up towards her, heavy nailed boots thumping loudly on the floor. But she took care not to step into the golden squares of light, and that had to be in the blood, because Harry had been just the same.

"Good morning. Are you Aunt Timila?" the woman asked.

"I am." She checked the chicken sizzling in the pan, reached for the lemons. "And you must be Patti Potter." Nobody had married much during the war, not like in her generation when a girl was looking forward to nothing so much as her wedding day. Now, with the sound of Harry's last name on her tongue, Aunt Timila was glad Lily had kept her maiden name.

"Oh," Patti smiled. "I found the right place finally. You know granddad."

"I certainly did know him."

The smile vanished. "He is dead?" She sank into the nearest chair, exhaustion suddenly showing in her face. "He always said that he was waiting to go until Voldemort was destroyed." She looked up to Aunt Timila. "He is gone, Voldemort, isn't he? Gone for good, forever?"

"London lies in sunshine, honey, the Dementors are pushed back into the moors by those silver ghosts of your kind – wizards and witches, I mean. Death Eaters are fleeing the country, seeking exile in Russia, from what one hears. I'd say, yes, Voldemort is gone." She added the bay leaves to the pan. "They're setting up a new Ministry of Magic in the City."

Patti nodded. "That's what I'm down here for. They want me to head the Auror Office."

Aunt Timila smiled and turned to cut slices of lemon. Harry would have been so proud. She could almost hear his dark voice, telling her all about it.

Patti stared out of the window and when she turned back, her green eyes shimmered with unshed tears. "Do you – ?" she started, but her voice broke and she fished a blue handkerchief out of one of the many pockets of her trousers, loudly blew her nose, wiped those tears away.

"He is fine, sweetheart, all fine," Aunt Timila said and meant to tell Harry's granddaughter about the pair of swifts that had come to her on the day after Voldemort's end. The brown plumage of the one was shot with dark blue feathers, the other was red almost like a robin's breast. She hadn't seen swifts as colourful since her childhood in Delhi. They stayed for long minutes, flying around in the back yard. They made it, the swifts let her know, happy, together. Aunt Timila had been humming a joyful tune ever since. But before she could say a word, Patti got her emotions back under control.

"Did he go alone, do you know?" she asked. "Did he die there in Temple Church all by himself, fighting? They only found his wand, not the body …"

Aunt Timila heard the deep sorrow behind those words. A soldier grieving for a fallen comrade more than a granddaughter missing her granddad, to be sure, but this woman had never really known Harry. What strange children they had been raising these last eighty years.

"No," she said as she reached for the ginger, "no, he didn't go alone. There was a friend, and he went with him. A wizard." Powerful and good with birds, she thought, but she didn't say it.

Patti gazed at her from those green eyes, curiosity written all over her face. "A wizard? Do you know his name?"

"Draco," Aunt Timila said, for this was the name Harry had told her. "Malfoy," she added, because this was how Harry himself had called him.

"A Malfoy!?" Patti sounded plain dubious. "But they were traitors of the worst kind, Death Eaters, every one of them."

"I wouldn't know about that." Aunt Timila mixed in the ginger and cumin with the tamarind paste. She thought of Harry cradling Draco's hand, his broad shoulders hunched, a fierce spark in his eyes, warning the world to dare as much as harm just one tip of Draco's hair. She thought, too, of Draco's brilliant smile, when Harry had leaned against him, the way he had put his arm around Harry's waist, making sure he was there and safe and well. "But this one could never have betrayed Harry. Never," she repeated, because if she was certain of one thing, then of this.

Patti shrugged, the expression on her face clearly showing that she could not imagine her granddad having anything to do with a Death Eater. It was a sentiment Aunt Timila would have shared, less than a week ago. Now she thought that a life was so much longer than the short minutes it took to burn a Dark Mark into yielding skin. The grey between the black and white was the first victim of every war, always. But these were things that this child would hardly understand. Not yet, anyway.

Aunt Timila fed Chicken Miravna to Harry's granddaughter, told her to come back and visit again. After the tall woman had stepped out onto Dartmouth Park Hill, into the unfamiliar hustle and bustle of the street, Aunt Timila closed the door behind her. The little bell tinkled, and her gaze fell on the poster of the phoenix rising, fire in the sky above a green valley. She paused, listened for the fluttering of wings outside in the backyard. There was silence, but perhaps Aunt Timila heard something still, for she smiled and went to crush the mustard seeds for her Biryani.

That night, she dreamed of grey eyes, misty and clear, like a spring.

fin

Author's Notes:
The story's title and the words of Harry's radio broadcast in Part 1 are adapted from the 2007 movie I Am Legend.

The artwork described at the beginning of Part 3 is Jeff Wall's, After "Invisible Man" by Ralph Ellison, 1999–2000, transparency in lightbox 1740 x 2505 mm.

The description of Scorpius in Part 5 – Scorpius. That graceful, quiet, gentle boy. – is a direct quote from Frayach ni Cuill's H/D fanfiction "The Price We Pay For Wings".