Reflections of War - Part 2
I hate how there is a word limit for posts.
Title: Reflections of War 2/3
Fandom: Harry Potter
Ship: Harry/Draco
Genre: Angst
Rating: Somewhere between PG-13 and R
Disclaimer: Nothing’s mine, as usual. Written before DH, so any spoilers there might be are completely accidental.
A/N: For Victoria.
Summary: Draco searches to restore the past, blindly expecting things to be the way he had left them.
Part 1
The streets were alive with the sounds of night.
High-pitched laughter and rowdy, drunken shouts drifted in from the bars, taverns and clubs as Draco passed them by. Cats yowled as they rummaged through trash for old scraps, sending the bins crashing as a result. A car could be heard as it came to a deafening screech a few blocks away, sirens wailing nearby. Draco could hear all this and more, drinking in this cacophony of night-noises as though he had never heard them before.
Nonetheless, it was a pleasant November’s night - the cherished time between autumn and winter where the seasons stood on the brink of both worlds - and the air was cool and invigorating as he took it in. It would’ve been a waste to Apparate the entire way on a night like this. Therefore, Draco had decided to walk.
The streetlights cast shadows on his footsteps, hard against the cobbled road, illuminating his path as his destination grew steadily nearer. He drew his cloak tighter in trepidation.
It was certainly not the friendliest district of London. Graffiti defaced the brick walls, homeless men and women littered the alleyways, and he even thought he caught sight of a cluster of rats escaping into the gutter. The area was completely poor, completely filthy, and completely muggle.
Draco made a mental note never to take Blaise Zabini’s advice again.
And yet, he was almost there, so Draco figured that there was no point in turning back.
However, this was before he caught sight of the club.
The instructions in Blaise’s slanted, loopy script couldn’t have been clearer, but this didn’t do anything to help convince Draco of their legitimacy as he stared scathingly ahead.
The building was an old rectangle of peeling paint and crumbling plaster. Whether its originally intended colour was yellow or copper brown, Draco couldn’t tell, and the convoluted combination of the two made him feel slightly ill. The worse part, however, was the flashing neon sign above the door. Florescent pink had never been so badly abused.
Approaching the door with a sickening sense of overwhelming dread, Draco vaguely wondered what had driven him to such desperate extremes.
Not that he needed a reminder, of course.
Conversely, Draco still had a few scattered fragments of self-dignity left - regardless of what others might’ve said - and he wasn’t particularly set on wasting the remaining bits on a nightclub. A muggle one, no less. And it was rather horrendously offensive to Draco’s good tastes.
It was at this point in his thoughts that a large, burly man in a beat-up suit returned to his post by the door. Glancing sharply at Draco he barked: “Where’s your…”
He turned to face Draco mid-sentence; his words were swallowed up by his expressions as his mouth fell open.
Draco raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow in his direction.
“Er, go on, go in,” the guard stuttered stupidly.
Bloody muggles, Draco thought, stepping blindly into the sea of flashing lights and throbbing music.
Multicoloured beams shot over his head, the only escape from the thrashing darkness, lewd words and obscene acts concealed beneath its cape. Draco could hardly move, trapped within the waves of gyrating bodies and loudly pulsing rhythms.
“Oh, for… this is …completely absurd…let me through, you insipid, inconsiderate muggles!”
He elbowed his way to the bar, turning heads as he passed strangers on his way.
When he was seated at the stool, he noticed that a number of the people he had bumped into were still staring in his direction, rapt in their attention.
“What?” he snapped, thoroughly irritated by now. “Don’t let me interrupt you. Go on, go back to having frenzied episodes of tantric sex, or whatever it is you lot do for fun.”
Due to the ear-numbing volume in the area, however, none of them had a heard a word of what Draco had said. They simply continued to stare. Then a girl burst out giggling and nudged her friend in the ribs.
Draco leered maliciously at her, and then turned his focus on the bartender. “Hello, I don’t suppose you serve anything remotely drinkable in this decrepit, grimy and ridiculously tacky dump?” he yelled over the noise.
Without missing a beat, the bartender said: “You’re wearing makeup.”
Draco threw his hands up in a mock act of celebration. “You must be in the secret services what with that astute sense of observation,” he grated in reply.
“No, I just work here,” the barman shrugged.
Draco closed his eyes in silent prayer for the stupid people of the world.
He was going kill Blaise Zabini.
When he reopened his eyes, the bartender had left, and Draco’s eyes were met with the sight of a promiscuous woman in an outlandishly short skirt and fish net tights, carrying a serving tray. “Anything I can get you?”
“Morphine, thanks.”
She had an annoying, breathy laugh that reminded Draco of a dying dog. He threw his head in his hands with a dramatic groan, disgustingly tempted to bang his head against the counter.
The woman, however, went on. “It’s not often we get blokes like you around here. But then again, it’s not everyone who could pull off wearing eyeliner and lip-gloss like that. And you wonder why half the girls in this place are staring at you.”
Draco raised his head. “Excuse me?”
She held up her empty platter in front of Draco’s face, and he could barely make out his reflection in the seizure-inducing lights but… He managed to surprise himself.
It didn’t look all that bad, he mused. The eyeliner brought out the silver in his eyes and contrasted dramatically with his blond hair as it fell in wisps over his eyes. His pale skin looked significantly healthier than it had earlier on in the day and his lips shimmered a rose-pink in the glow of the club. It was amazing what a bit of motivation could do.
And then the tray was yanked away, in a sudden, sharp movement. “Oh, I forgot about Harry’s order! Hold on, I’ll be right back,” the woman said with a wink.
Draco grabbed her arm wildly. “He’s here? What the hell is he doing here?” he demanded, his eyes blazing.
“Well, I wouldn’t know now, would I? You know him? He’s right over there if you wanted to…”
But Draco was already moving, storming in the direction she had pointed him in, and pushing through those in his way without the slightest remorse.
Then he saw him. Jet black hair standing up on end, a thin figure… Draco rushed forward until he was right behind him, and then reached a hand out to touch his shoulder. “Harry?”
“Are those the drinks, love?” the man said, slowly turning around. And then he saw Draco.
“Shit,” said Draco. God, he was stupid. Of course it wasn’t him. He had the wrong eyes, the wrong lips, the wrong neck, the wrong everything. Draco felt like a complete idiot for setting his hopes too high.
“You’re…?” Draco asked weakly, looking up at the man.
“Harry Bloomberg,” he answered, a curious expression on his face.
“Of course you are,” Draco rasped. He then ran out of there as fast as he could.
He was too distressed to even remember the concept of Apparition. Instead, he ran through the streets, turning left, then right, then right again, until he no longer recognized his surroundings. In a way, it was relaxing just to run and breathe the cold night air, and for a moment Draco was so focused on getting away that he had forgotten what he was running away from.
It almost worked.
But then he ran out of breath.
Leaning against the wall of an Irish pub to catch his breath, he checked his watch, slowly pulling back his sleeve as though fearing the answer.
It was well past midnight.
He knew he should probably be getting back soon - not that he had any particular reason to, but it was comforting to pretend. He could also feel the caffeine wearing off, draining from his blood.
“It’ll be quick,” he reassured himself out loud, and he ducked into the pub.
It was a small, cozy little thing, with Celtic music tinkling through the old speakers on the ceiling. Irish song lyrics and poetry were carved into the dark wood of the walls and tables, and the place was practically deserted.
Stepping up to the counter, he cleared his throat loudly, causing the other customers to shift in their sleep and the bar tender to jerk out of his unscheduled nap.
“Coffee. Medium black.” Draco drawled, taking a seat.
The figure sitting a few stools down to his left stirred and looked up at him. “Still haven’t kicked the habit, eh?”
Draco froze as he recognized the voice.
“Don’t do this to me,” he said quietly, his eyes clamped shut.
“I know what you mean,” the figure said, carrying on as though he hadn’t heard the last part. “It took me ages until I finally quit with the cigarettes. Used to do a pack of a day.”
“You don’t smoke. You never did.” Draco’s voice was barely above a whisper, as if trying to convince himself that none of it was really happening.
The man took off his over-sized black coat and draped it lazily over his seat.
The barkeep then bustled off to restock his supply of coffee beans, and Draco waited until he had left the room before speaking again.
“Why are you doing this?” He managed to keep his voice even. Measured. Calm.
Harry smirked. “What, I don’t make a convincing smoker?”
They looked at each other for a long, crucial moment. Harry looked the same as he had always done, his green eyes the colour of life and hair so dark that if Draco were to run his fingers through it, he’d later find his hands stained with ink-black defiance, ink-black regret. Draco remembered it all, from the freckle at his collarbone to the way that one particular piece of hair always stuck out to the side, and he couldn’t help but desperately want to reach out and touch him, just to make sure he was real.
At the same time, Harry took in the smudged makeup around Draco’s eyes, and the shimmer at his mouth that made his lips look full and pouting in their slow smile.
“You look…you look good, Draco,” Harry said at last. The statement sounded oddly detached as it reached its recipient.
Draco half-smiled. “Why are you talking to me as if you don’t know who I am, you complete and utter bastard?” He didn’t quite understand why he was pushing him away after all this, although there was certainly satisfaction to be had in saying it out loud.
Harry’s gaze shot through him like an icy metal blade, piercing and deadly.
“There’s no need to worry about the past if you make it up,” he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else.
Draco shook his head unbelievingly. “You are such a bloody coward, Harry Potter.”
“Go to hell. Don’t pretend you know what it’s like,” Harry turned away, as though already bored with their conversation.
“Do you know how ridiculous you sound? Can you even hear yourself? Merlin, you really haven’t changed at all; you’re just as stubborn and stupid as ever. What gives you the impression that you’re suffering for the rest of the world? It’s just your own self-importance speaking again; I’ve never heard anything more selfish in my life.”
Harry laughed. It was a foreign sound amidst such a conversation, and Draco glared at him, demanding for an explanation. “You sound like you did when we were seventeen,” Harry said. “Exactly the same.”
“It wasn’t that long ago,” said Draco neutrally.
All Harry did was give him a passing glance - a strangely misplaced look in his eyes- before he reached Draco in three belligerent strides and pushed him up against the wall.
Draco’s head hit the wall hard, the back of his head scraping with the rough angles of the splintering wood, but none of it mattered because Harry’s lips were blood red, lust-red, inches away from his own. Draco could feel his breath ghost over his cheek, just for an instant, and then their mouths came crashing together in a blistering, desperate kiss.
It was purposeful in its execution, with Harry’s hand braced against the wall and his palm sweaty on the cool stone. Somehow his leg had found its way between Draco’s, with the blond boy tilting his head to allow for the kiss to deepen. Draco moaned into Harry’s mouth as he pressed against him, arching into the wall, and let his arms fall limply around Harry’s neck as he redeemed three months of hell with this one kiss. Right before they broke apart, Draco could feel the shimmering gloss as it rubbed off on Harry, sticky and sparkling on his face.
“You got lip-gloss all over me, brat,” Harry panted. “Why are you wearing that anyway?
“For the same reason you took up smoking,” Draco replied
Harry grinned. “Did you want to go … ”
“Sure.” Words were useless luxuries.
Without any further arrangement, Harry grabbed on to Draco’s arm, and they Dissaparated together with a loud crack.
The bartender returned moments later, only to find two customers missing, and a steaming cup of coffee left orphaned on the counter.
***
Part 3
Title: Reflections of War 2/3
Fandom: Harry Potter
Ship: Harry/Draco
Genre: Angst
Rating: Somewhere between PG-13 and R
Disclaimer: Nothing’s mine, as usual. Written before DH, so any spoilers there might be are completely accidental.
A/N: For Victoria.
Summary: Draco searches to restore the past, blindly expecting things to be the way he had left them.
Part 1
The streets were alive with the sounds of night.
High-pitched laughter and rowdy, drunken shouts drifted in from the bars, taverns and clubs as Draco passed them by. Cats yowled as they rummaged through trash for old scraps, sending the bins crashing as a result. A car could be heard as it came to a deafening screech a few blocks away, sirens wailing nearby. Draco could hear all this and more, drinking in this cacophony of night-noises as though he had never heard them before.
Nonetheless, it was a pleasant November’s night - the cherished time between autumn and winter where the seasons stood on the brink of both worlds - and the air was cool and invigorating as he took it in. It would’ve been a waste to Apparate the entire way on a night like this. Therefore, Draco had decided to walk.
The streetlights cast shadows on his footsteps, hard against the cobbled road, illuminating his path as his destination grew steadily nearer. He drew his cloak tighter in trepidation.
It was certainly not the friendliest district of London. Graffiti defaced the brick walls, homeless men and women littered the alleyways, and he even thought he caught sight of a cluster of rats escaping into the gutter. The area was completely poor, completely filthy, and completely muggle.
Draco made a mental note never to take Blaise Zabini’s advice again.
And yet, he was almost there, so Draco figured that there was no point in turning back.
However, this was before he caught sight of the club.
The instructions in Blaise’s slanted, loopy script couldn’t have been clearer, but this didn’t do anything to help convince Draco of their legitimacy as he stared scathingly ahead.
The building was an old rectangle of peeling paint and crumbling plaster. Whether its originally intended colour was yellow or copper brown, Draco couldn’t tell, and the convoluted combination of the two made him feel slightly ill. The worse part, however, was the flashing neon sign above the door. Florescent pink had never been so badly abused.
Approaching the door with a sickening sense of overwhelming dread, Draco vaguely wondered what had driven him to such desperate extremes.
Not that he needed a reminder, of course.
Conversely, Draco still had a few scattered fragments of self-dignity left - regardless of what others might’ve said - and he wasn’t particularly set on wasting the remaining bits on a nightclub. A muggle one, no less. And it was rather horrendously offensive to Draco’s good tastes.
It was at this point in his thoughts that a large, burly man in a beat-up suit returned to his post by the door. Glancing sharply at Draco he barked: “Where’s your…”
He turned to face Draco mid-sentence; his words were swallowed up by his expressions as his mouth fell open.
Draco raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow in his direction.
“Er, go on, go in,” the guard stuttered stupidly.
Bloody muggles, Draco thought, stepping blindly into the sea of flashing lights and throbbing music.
Multicoloured beams shot over his head, the only escape from the thrashing darkness, lewd words and obscene acts concealed beneath its cape. Draco could hardly move, trapped within the waves of gyrating bodies and loudly pulsing rhythms.
“Oh, for… this is …completely absurd…let me through, you insipid, inconsiderate muggles!”
He elbowed his way to the bar, turning heads as he passed strangers on his way.
When he was seated at the stool, he noticed that a number of the people he had bumped into were still staring in his direction, rapt in their attention.
“What?” he snapped, thoroughly irritated by now. “Don’t let me interrupt you. Go on, go back to having frenzied episodes of tantric sex, or whatever it is you lot do for fun.”
Due to the ear-numbing volume in the area, however, none of them had a heard a word of what Draco had said. They simply continued to stare. Then a girl burst out giggling and nudged her friend in the ribs.
Draco leered maliciously at her, and then turned his focus on the bartender. “Hello, I don’t suppose you serve anything remotely drinkable in this decrepit, grimy and ridiculously tacky dump?” he yelled over the noise.
Without missing a beat, the bartender said: “You’re wearing makeup.”
Draco threw his hands up in a mock act of celebration. “You must be in the secret services what with that astute sense of observation,” he grated in reply.
“No, I just work here,” the barman shrugged.
Draco closed his eyes in silent prayer for the stupid people of the world.
He was going kill Blaise Zabini.
When he reopened his eyes, the bartender had left, and Draco’s eyes were met with the sight of a promiscuous woman in an outlandishly short skirt and fish net tights, carrying a serving tray. “Anything I can get you?”
“Morphine, thanks.”
She had an annoying, breathy laugh that reminded Draco of a dying dog. He threw his head in his hands with a dramatic groan, disgustingly tempted to bang his head against the counter.
The woman, however, went on. “It’s not often we get blokes like you around here. But then again, it’s not everyone who could pull off wearing eyeliner and lip-gloss like that. And you wonder why half the girls in this place are staring at you.”
Draco raised his head. “Excuse me?”
She held up her empty platter in front of Draco’s face, and he could barely make out his reflection in the seizure-inducing lights but… He managed to surprise himself.
It didn’t look all that bad, he mused. The eyeliner brought out the silver in his eyes and contrasted dramatically with his blond hair as it fell in wisps over his eyes. His pale skin looked significantly healthier than it had earlier on in the day and his lips shimmered a rose-pink in the glow of the club. It was amazing what a bit of motivation could do.
And then the tray was yanked away, in a sudden, sharp movement. “Oh, I forgot about Harry’s order! Hold on, I’ll be right back,” the woman said with a wink.
Draco grabbed her arm wildly. “He’s here? What the hell is he doing here?” he demanded, his eyes blazing.
“Well, I wouldn’t know now, would I? You know him? He’s right over there if you wanted to…”
But Draco was already moving, storming in the direction she had pointed him in, and pushing through those in his way without the slightest remorse.
Then he saw him. Jet black hair standing up on end, a thin figure… Draco rushed forward until he was right behind him, and then reached a hand out to touch his shoulder. “Harry?”
“Are those the drinks, love?” the man said, slowly turning around. And then he saw Draco.
“Shit,” said Draco. God, he was stupid. Of course it wasn’t him. He had the wrong eyes, the wrong lips, the wrong neck, the wrong everything. Draco felt like a complete idiot for setting his hopes too high.
“You’re…?” Draco asked weakly, looking up at the man.
“Harry Bloomberg,” he answered, a curious expression on his face.
“Of course you are,” Draco rasped. He then ran out of there as fast as he could.
He was too distressed to even remember the concept of Apparition. Instead, he ran through the streets, turning left, then right, then right again, until he no longer recognized his surroundings. In a way, it was relaxing just to run and breathe the cold night air, and for a moment Draco was so focused on getting away that he had forgotten what he was running away from.
It almost worked.
But then he ran out of breath.
Leaning against the wall of an Irish pub to catch his breath, he checked his watch, slowly pulling back his sleeve as though fearing the answer.
It was well past midnight.
He knew he should probably be getting back soon - not that he had any particular reason to, but it was comforting to pretend. He could also feel the caffeine wearing off, draining from his blood.
“It’ll be quick,” he reassured himself out loud, and he ducked into the pub.
It was a small, cozy little thing, with Celtic music tinkling through the old speakers on the ceiling. Irish song lyrics and poetry were carved into the dark wood of the walls and tables, and the place was practically deserted.
Stepping up to the counter, he cleared his throat loudly, causing the other customers to shift in their sleep and the bar tender to jerk out of his unscheduled nap.
“Coffee. Medium black.” Draco drawled, taking a seat.
The figure sitting a few stools down to his left stirred and looked up at him. “Still haven’t kicked the habit, eh?”
Draco froze as he recognized the voice.
“Don’t do this to me,” he said quietly, his eyes clamped shut.
“I know what you mean,” the figure said, carrying on as though he hadn’t heard the last part. “It took me ages until I finally quit with the cigarettes. Used to do a pack of a day.”
“You don’t smoke. You never did.” Draco’s voice was barely above a whisper, as if trying to convince himself that none of it was really happening.
The man took off his over-sized black coat and draped it lazily over his seat.
The barkeep then bustled off to restock his supply of coffee beans, and Draco waited until he had left the room before speaking again.
“Why are you doing this?” He managed to keep his voice even. Measured. Calm.
Harry smirked. “What, I don’t make a convincing smoker?”
They looked at each other for a long, crucial moment. Harry looked the same as he had always done, his green eyes the colour of life and hair so dark that if Draco were to run his fingers through it, he’d later find his hands stained with ink-black defiance, ink-black regret. Draco remembered it all, from the freckle at his collarbone to the way that one particular piece of hair always stuck out to the side, and he couldn’t help but desperately want to reach out and touch him, just to make sure he was real.
At the same time, Harry took in the smudged makeup around Draco’s eyes, and the shimmer at his mouth that made his lips look full and pouting in their slow smile.
“You look…you look good, Draco,” Harry said at last. The statement sounded oddly detached as it reached its recipient.
Draco half-smiled. “Why are you talking to me as if you don’t know who I am, you complete and utter bastard?” He didn’t quite understand why he was pushing him away after all this, although there was certainly satisfaction to be had in saying it out loud.
Harry’s gaze shot through him like an icy metal blade, piercing and deadly.
“There’s no need to worry about the past if you make it up,” he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else.
Draco shook his head unbelievingly. “You are such a bloody coward, Harry Potter.”
“Go to hell. Don’t pretend you know what it’s like,” Harry turned away, as though already bored with their conversation.
“Do you know how ridiculous you sound? Can you even hear yourself? Merlin, you really haven’t changed at all; you’re just as stubborn and stupid as ever. What gives you the impression that you’re suffering for the rest of the world? It’s just your own self-importance speaking again; I’ve never heard anything more selfish in my life.”
Harry laughed. It was a foreign sound amidst such a conversation, and Draco glared at him, demanding for an explanation. “You sound like you did when we were seventeen,” Harry said. “Exactly the same.”
“It wasn’t that long ago,” said Draco neutrally.
All Harry did was give him a passing glance - a strangely misplaced look in his eyes- before he reached Draco in three belligerent strides and pushed him up against the wall.
Draco’s head hit the wall hard, the back of his head scraping with the rough angles of the splintering wood, but none of it mattered because Harry’s lips were blood red, lust-red, inches away from his own. Draco could feel his breath ghost over his cheek, just for an instant, and then their mouths came crashing together in a blistering, desperate kiss.
It was purposeful in its execution, with Harry’s hand braced against the wall and his palm sweaty on the cool stone. Somehow his leg had found its way between Draco’s, with the blond boy tilting his head to allow for the kiss to deepen. Draco moaned into Harry’s mouth as he pressed against him, arching into the wall, and let his arms fall limply around Harry’s neck as he redeemed three months of hell with this one kiss. Right before they broke apart, Draco could feel the shimmering gloss as it rubbed off on Harry, sticky and sparkling on his face.
“You got lip-gloss all over me, brat,” Harry panted. “Why are you wearing that anyway?
“For the same reason you took up smoking,” Draco replied
Harry grinned. “Did you want to go … ”
“Sure.” Words were useless luxuries.
Without any further arrangement, Harry grabbed on to Draco’s arm, and they Dissaparated together with a loud crack.
The bartender returned moments later, only to find two customers missing, and a steaming cup of coffee left orphaned on the counter.
***
Part 3