FIC: A Poison Tree 2/2
When bad things come, the seemed to come in threes Draco noted as he surveyed the scene of carnage. The Dark Lord’s followers were decimated; headless, bled out and torn to bits, mostly from the potions and spells Draco had helped the Light side create.
He bore his own wounds from the night’s long battle. His right arm was tucked against his chest and his left knee ached in the fierce winter wind that swept the grounds, taking away the foul smell of corpses and death.
Down on the field of battle, the second battle of the wizarding world was taking place. Ronald Weasley, flanked by Hermione Granger, was confessing his long sins to his partner, his friend, his leader and lover. Potter was not taking it well.
The dark haired Prat-That-Lived-Twice had found them mid thrust in the council room, on top of the old war table, doing their own version of celebrating the Dark Lord’s defeat. It had been Draco’s suggestion, Draco’s idea, Draco’s prodding and Draco’s teasing that had spurred the responsible leader to go find his lover for some celebration of his own.
Of course, Draco’s secrets had told him what the other two had been up to, and where the best chance of them going at it was. What he hadn’t been expecting was the explosion that had occurred.
That Potter would be devastated was something he had counted on. That he would go on a rampage was something he had not. Now the two were facing off, sending deadly spells flying, creating a scene that would soon draw spectators from all over.
Draco found himself wanting to keep only one set of eyes in the whole bunch, but they were currently occupied, much to his irritation.
The duel was cut short when the blond ambled his way between the pair.
“Fighting like five year olds over the last cookie,” he shook his head. “How very plebian of you.” Pale eyes slid over to the redhead. “How charming. He picks the girl over the boy. Bravo, Weasley. You’re boring. Go away.”
“Now see here, Malfoy…”
“Ron, really…”
“Hermione Granger, girl-who-was-too-smart-to-be-the-heroine.” Draco studied her tired, plump form for a moment. Then he smiled. “Congratulations, Frizzy-head. How far along are you?”
“What?” Two startled voices looked from him then to the woman.
Hermione paled and put a hand over her abdomen. “I - I don’t know.”
Harry’s wand lowered as he stared at Ron. “Is it his?”
“Harry…”
“Is. It. Ron’s?”
“Yes.”
The dark head bowed. “Get away from me. You have…a responsibility now, Ron. Just…answer me this. How long?”
The red head made an attempt to reach out, which Harry batted away. “Five…five years.”
Harry fell to his knees and pressed his fists to the ground. “Go away. Now.”
“Harry…”
“Now!”
The pair jumped and took a few stumbling steps away. Draco tilted his head as he watched them go, seeing how Ron reached out to wrap an arm around Hermione’s waist and how the young woman leaned her head against his shoulder.
“Why?”
The broken whisper rose up from his feet. “Because they’re prats.”
“Why?”
He looked down at the bowed head. “Because you are Harry Potter, the untouchable god, the glorious hero, the wondrous of wonders, the Prat-Who-Lived. They are meant for their own light, they strive for it, they yearn for recognition, for fame, for the Gryffindor glory they’ve been hand fed for years.”
“You…you’re wrong.”
“Am I?” Draco looked away. “Tell me Potter, how long do you like lying to yourself? Give me a date and I’ll come back then.”
“You…”
“Yes I’m here.”
“I’m not a god.”
“It’s the small things we’re grateful for, really.”
“Malfoy…”
“Do you know what my name means?” The question took the kneeling man by surprise. Harry looked up, his face pale and his eyes red, rawer in the aftermath of a breaking heart than in the moment of saving the world for the umpteenth time.
“No, I don’t.”
Draco knelt down in front of him, even as he knee protested the movement. He stared into shattered emeralds and called them pretty in the secret chambers of his heart. “My name - last name - means bad faith. We’ve never worshipped just any god. They always seem to fail us, in the end.” He studied the man in front of him. “Tell me, Potter. Do you like being a god? Do you like being around the demigods that flock to you, roll in the glory of your name like dogs in the scent of something dead?”
Harry flinched and his eyes shattered a little more. “They don’t do that.”
“Don’t they?” Draco smiled at him, letting a few secrets spill out into his eyes. “Tell me, then, Potter, what they’re going to do now. The war is won. You survived, when everyone else thought you would die and all they’d be left with is a memorial and books. Stories to regale to the patrons of the pub fifty years down the line of those few years they served, fighting the good fight under their Light Lord.”
He leaned towards Harry, their faces inches apart. “Tell me, tottering god, what will they do when your idol topples and falls, shattering on the ground of their new disbelief?”
Harry drew in a shuddering breath. “It’s not…it’s not like that. They won’t…the people won’t…”
Draco blinked, slow and long, engraving the look of shattered eyes and the dying hope in the man’s face into the deepest part of his heart. “Believe what you want Potter.” He stood with a grunt. “It’s always amusing to see gods die. The fall out is particularly spectacular.” He turned and limped away, leaving the man to huddle on the cooling ground, in the path of the cutting north wind. No words stopped his tracks nor called him back.
*-*-*
It was the middle of the night when his secret came knocking on the door. The remains of the day’s papers lay scattered across Draco’s desk, all the headlines proclaiming shock and outrage, backlash and bureaucracy as the wizarding world attempted to make peace with the bloodshed and fear of the last half decade.
The hard body pressed Draco against the cool dungeon walls. The months old lumnos was gone and they existed to each other by touch and scent. Bent over a desk, the rough wood sliding against his palms, Draco panted out his secrets in a long litany of words too garbled to understand. Harry did not notice, did not seem to care. The hot rush of here and now pounded through them both, blocking both their ears.
It was in the morning, when the windows near the ceiling began to glow with light, that Draco did push himself out of the warm cocoon that they had created out of clothes and a transfigured blanket. He padded naked over to the desk and took out the hidden bottom of the hidden drawer. He held up the golden vial, studying the clarity of the potion through the seeping dawn light.
“Into my garden stole, when night had veiled the pole, in the morning, glad, I see, my foe outstretched beneath the tree.” He uncorked the vial and drank it down, his tongue flicking out over his lips to catch the last sour-sweet taste.
Laying down next to Harry and pushing honey sweet kisses against his lips was easy. The secrets in his heart hammered against their cages, their sweet victories pale in comparison against the one last rush of pleasure rushing through his limbs.
For the love of my Lord, he straddled the dark haired man, even as his rich saliva dripped down into Harry’s mouth. For though I am a sinner, I am penitent to the cause.
*-*-*
The poison was swift. Harry Potter’s corpse was found in the potions lab, naked and covered in spunk, a dismal end to a fading and tarnished victory over the Dark Lord. Of Draco Malfoy nothing remained. No notes, no books nor clothes or personal affects were left in the rooms. Just a sketch of an apple tree, with one ripe fruit hanging down from the lowest limb.
End.
A Poison Tree
William Blake
I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
And I watered it in fears
Night and morning with my tears,
And I sunned it with smiles
And with soft deceitful wiles.
And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright,
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine -
And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning, glad, I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.