The Manor Sequence
Title: The Manor Sequence
Characters/Pairing: Harry/Draco
Word Count: 100, 526, 143
MOONLIGHT SONATA
A/N: A re-post of one of my first drabbles that serves as part one in this sequence.
__________
The stone walls are rough under your fingertips as they trace your passage through the moonlit corridors. These halls are filled with nothing but your loneliness. Draco’s spirit is fading, receding back to the shadows in every corner of your life. Soon he will be gone for good.
Treading carpeted ground, you are getting nowhere. There is always motion but never movement. Walking the halls and never getting closer. Separated, you are the hero, he the martyr. Yet you believe in his return.
The manor is cold without him, dark with despair.
Tomorrow you learn that your lover is dead.
REQUIEM
A/N: I wrote this yesterday, and it's supposed to be just reminiscing on Harry's part about what life was like with Draco.
__________
You miss the nights when you’d sit with him in the corridor of the Manor, that one corridor with the row of lead windows near the ceiling. You’d sit together during storms just talking, or taking comfort in each other’s silence. You’d sit Indian-style while he would stretch out his legs, his left hand tracing over your right palm, outstretched on the Oriental rug. A bolt of lightning would illuminate the sky and thunder would shake even the stone.
As the night wore on and midnight approached, you would rest your head on his shoulder and he’d turn his head and kiss your hair as you’d close your eyes and lean into his embrace. Sometimes you’d fall asleep there, amidst the shadows and the electricity. Other times you’d both stay awake for hours, shifting occasionally and as quiet as the now dormant but rainy sky.
His mother would play Moonlight Sonata on the ebony grand piano, her thin fingers gracing ivory keys while you’d discuss (rather vehemently) whether Fëanor was good or evil and whether or not Napoleon was a war hero. You’d argue over Aslan and God, Jadis and Satan, and whether or not Rocket really had a Golden Eye. You’d try to have a staring contest, but your contacts would fog up, and you’d huddle together after scaring yourselves too much to move. You’d giggle when you both jumped at an unexpected clap of thunder, and giggle some more at his look of indignation and disbelief. A kiss and a smile, and silence would overtake you once again.
You’d appreciate the third movement and thank him silently for his influence on your fine taste in music. The grandfather clock would announce one’s arrival as you again defend your position on mortality indeed being the gift of the One to Men, regardless how bitter to receive. You’d remind him of Ar-Pharazôn and he’d shudder as he doesn’t know how to swim. (Some bollocks about magic having saved him twice already from drowning and what’s the point of learning if you’re going to live anyway?) You’d guess that he doubts his chances against the Wave and smile. It’d go unnoticed from his rant on Plato, and you’d ask if he wants some hemlock. You’d get a smack upside your head for not listening, and a poke in the chest for not knowing your history. He’d scowl and fall into silence once again.
He’d lean against your side and throw his arm across your stomach, and his hair would pick up static from your robes. After a few minutes or a few hours-you’d both have forgotten-he’d rise (albeit reluctantly) and pull you to your feet. He’d hug you then, tight and warm and loving. You’d hug him back, and smirk because you’re half an inch taller. He’d take your hand and lead you down the corridor, up a flight of spiral steps, and then up another. He would open the only door off of the landing and you’d both collapse onto his bed, tangled up and completely in love. The fan would rattle in the background as you’d fall into sleep and dream of storms.
References:
Fëanor, Ar-Pharazôn, and the gift of the One to Men are all from Tolkien’s Histories of Middle-earth. The Wave that I refer to is the wave that destroyed Númenor, but the Plato reference and Draco’s rant is about Atlantis.
Aslan and Jadis are from C.S. Lewis’s The Chronicles of Narnia.
Rocket and his Golden Eye are from Robert R. McCammon’s Boy’s Life.
THE MANOR BY MOONLIGHT
A/N: This takes place almost directly after Moonlight Sonata.
___________
You knew then that your life would never be the same. Before, at least you had hope; now all you have is truth. Veritas vos liberabit. Being set free was the same to you as being sent to your death.
Still you walk the corridors of the manor alone, moonlight still seeping through the windows. Your feet stumble on smooth stone as you fall into the shadows that surround you. “He’s gone,” they whisper. “You’re alone,” they scream. This serves as your lullaby and you are haunted by nightmares and storms.
When you wake it is still dark. The moon smiles down at you through the leaden glass, unaware of your plight. The house looms before you, ignorant of your solitude and as empty as your heart. The picture, once so defined in front of you, begins to fade. (As does your love).
Characters/Pairing: Harry/Draco
Word Count: 100, 526, 143
MOONLIGHT SONATA
A/N: A re-post of one of my first drabbles that serves as part one in this sequence.
__________
The stone walls are rough under your fingertips as they trace your passage through the moonlit corridors. These halls are filled with nothing but your loneliness. Draco’s spirit is fading, receding back to the shadows in every corner of your life. Soon he will be gone for good.
Treading carpeted ground, you are getting nowhere. There is always motion but never movement. Walking the halls and never getting closer. Separated, you are the hero, he the martyr. Yet you believe in his return.
The manor is cold without him, dark with despair.
Tomorrow you learn that your lover is dead.
REQUIEM
A/N: I wrote this yesterday, and it's supposed to be just reminiscing on Harry's part about what life was like with Draco.
__________
You miss the nights when you’d sit with him in the corridor of the Manor, that one corridor with the row of lead windows near the ceiling. You’d sit together during storms just talking, or taking comfort in each other’s silence. You’d sit Indian-style while he would stretch out his legs, his left hand tracing over your right palm, outstretched on the Oriental rug. A bolt of lightning would illuminate the sky and thunder would shake even the stone.
As the night wore on and midnight approached, you would rest your head on his shoulder and he’d turn his head and kiss your hair as you’d close your eyes and lean into his embrace. Sometimes you’d fall asleep there, amidst the shadows and the electricity. Other times you’d both stay awake for hours, shifting occasionally and as quiet as the now dormant but rainy sky.
His mother would play Moonlight Sonata on the ebony grand piano, her thin fingers gracing ivory keys while you’d discuss (rather vehemently) whether Fëanor was good or evil and whether or not Napoleon was a war hero. You’d argue over Aslan and God, Jadis and Satan, and whether or not Rocket really had a Golden Eye. You’d try to have a staring contest, but your contacts would fog up, and you’d huddle together after scaring yourselves too much to move. You’d giggle when you both jumped at an unexpected clap of thunder, and giggle some more at his look of indignation and disbelief. A kiss and a smile, and silence would overtake you once again.
You’d appreciate the third movement and thank him silently for his influence on your fine taste in music. The grandfather clock would announce one’s arrival as you again defend your position on mortality indeed being the gift of the One to Men, regardless how bitter to receive. You’d remind him of Ar-Pharazôn and he’d shudder as he doesn’t know how to swim. (Some bollocks about magic having saved him twice already from drowning and what’s the point of learning if you’re going to live anyway?) You’d guess that he doubts his chances against the Wave and smile. It’d go unnoticed from his rant on Plato, and you’d ask if he wants some hemlock. You’d get a smack upside your head for not listening, and a poke in the chest for not knowing your history. He’d scowl and fall into silence once again.
He’d lean against your side and throw his arm across your stomach, and his hair would pick up static from your robes. After a few minutes or a few hours-you’d both have forgotten-he’d rise (albeit reluctantly) and pull you to your feet. He’d hug you then, tight and warm and loving. You’d hug him back, and smirk because you’re half an inch taller. He’d take your hand and lead you down the corridor, up a flight of spiral steps, and then up another. He would open the only door off of the landing and you’d both collapse onto his bed, tangled up and completely in love. The fan would rattle in the background as you’d fall into sleep and dream of storms.
References:
Fëanor, Ar-Pharazôn, and the gift of the One to Men are all from Tolkien’s Histories of Middle-earth. The Wave that I refer to is the wave that destroyed Númenor, but the Plato reference and Draco’s rant is about Atlantis.
Aslan and Jadis are from C.S. Lewis’s The Chronicles of Narnia.
Rocket and his Golden Eye are from Robert R. McCammon’s Boy’s Life.
THE MANOR BY MOONLIGHT
A/N: This takes place almost directly after Moonlight Sonata.
___________
You knew then that your life would never be the same. Before, at least you had hope; now all you have is truth. Veritas vos liberabit. Being set free was the same to you as being sent to your death.
Still you walk the corridors of the manor alone, moonlight still seeping through the windows. Your feet stumble on smooth stone as you fall into the shadows that surround you. “He’s gone,” they whisper. “You’re alone,” they scream. This serves as your lullaby and you are haunted by nightmares and storms.
When you wake it is still dark. The moon smiles down at you through the leaden glass, unaware of your plight. The house looms before you, ignorant of your solitude and as empty as your heart. The picture, once so defined in front of you, begins to fade. (As does your love).