Fic Rec: "Running on Air" by eleventy7
Title: Running on Air
Author:
eleventy7
Pairing: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy
Rating: G
Word Count: 74,885 words
Summary: Draco Malfoy has been missing for three years. Harry is assigned the cold case and finds himself slowly falling in love with the memories he collects.
Why I loved this: Okay, I'm not going to lie, I love this author ever since I first read Lonely Moon, which is one of my favorite Harry/Draco fics. So I was beyond excited to find out they had written a new fic and I was not disappointed. It's a slowburn romance, but it needs to be because so much happens in Harry's life as he investigates Draco Malfoy's disappearance. He hates his job, his relationship with Ginny is falling apart, and he doesn't actually know what to do about it other than knowing it needs to change. And while Draco is not actually present in most of the fic, the memories Harry sees gives a better understanding of who he falls in love with. That, I think, is the magic of this fic. Lovely read. ♥
Two hours later, Harry's sitting in the middle of the bed, the objects scattered around him like autumn leaves. A prefect's badge catches the lamplight and shines brightly; an origami rose lays upon a cushion.
Harry, long ago forgetting the purpose of the task and becoming absorbed in tiny details, finds himself poring over the Hogwarts textbooks.
Draco wrote in them. Little notes, scribbled in the margins, from the very first Standard Book of Spells, Grade One to Advanced Potion-Making. It's strange; Harry had always assumed Draco to be irritatingly arrogant and unbearably smug about classwork, but the first-year textbooks reveal pages and pages of notes painstakingly written in the childish hand of an eleven-year-old. Draco had recorded every step and, it seems to Harry, had been fearful of misfiring a spell or using incorrect technique.
It's strange seeing how Draco's handwriting changes over the years. The carefully rounded letters soon give way to a lopsided look and, towards sixth year, the writing develops into a strong and graceful script.
There's little asides dotted throughout the pages. Merlin's beard, this is boring, Draco has written in a Herbology textbook, abruptly cutting off his extensive notes about a Seven-Teethed Tulip. Even more surprising is the frank admission in Advanced Potion-Making: on a page about the uses of beetle legs, Draco has written I don't even care about this subject anymore.
Strange, that Draco would write such thoughts in his textbooks. But, Harry realises, who else could he have confided in? Towards the end of their time at Hogwarts, it became clear Draco didn't trust even his closest friends. And certainly, he couldn't confide in his parents, both of whom were as equally troubled as him.
It must have been lonely. And Harry knows that loneliness well.
Harry turns the pages of Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six. Every now and again, there's an elaborate Celtic knot, but Harry doesn't assign that any meaning. It seems Draco was fond of simply practising the patterns during especially boring classes. There's a few notes here and there, written neatly in the margins. Spell didn't work when attempted to cast on self, Draco's written on one page. Harry frowns and reads the title of the spell. Tranquillo Charm, apparently used to calm people and lessen fear or anxiety.
He shuts the book and stares down at the cover for a long time. There's no seventh-year books. Draco hadn't returned to Hogwarts after the war to complete his schooling, then.
Harry leans across the bed and pulls Draco's notebook towards him. It's a 2003 calendar and diary, filled with neatly written but mundane dates. Weekly withdrawals from Gringotts, scheduled in like clockwork; a reminder to renew his car registration. The final note was written on the day Draco disappeared. Visit family solicitor, 4:30pm. No doubt the errand Draco had planned to complete after purchasing the owl. Nevertheless, it might be worth asking the solicitor about the purpose of Draco's visit, if the solicitor can recall it.
Harry flips through the rest of the notebook, but the pages beyond September 9 are all blank and -
His name.
He stares at the page. November 21. A date apparently selected at random.
Potter,
I believe you have property which is rightfully mine -
The words are quickly crossed out. A draft of a letter, Harry realises, for just beneath it, Draco attempts a second approach.
Dear Potter,
I believe you are currently in possession of a hawthorn wand, unicorn hair core -
Crossed out again. A third attempt, a fourth. The fifth attempt demonstrates a degree of annoyance and begins in a wilful scrawl:
Potter, give me back my wand. It's not like you're using it, anyway. You probably don't even bother with wands anymore. Frankly, I'm waiting for you to ascend the ninth plane and become an anthropomorphic mass of pure energy. Next headline in the Daily Prophet: Saviour Potter Now Classified as New Planet.
Harry can't help but grin. It's quite funny, really. Adding to the amusement is a small drawing Draco did, presumably of Planet Harry: he's drawn a Saturn-esque planet wearing a pair of spectacles. Harry laughs and turns the page, half-hoping to find another amusing drawing, but instead finds more writing. The letter continues, apparently.
Do you remember when we were eleven? Let's go back to that.
The words roll across Harry's mind like waves breaking. He blinks, his smile fading, and begins reading again.
Do you remember when we were eleven? Let's go back to that. I'll throw Remembralls into the sky and you can try to catch them.
Sometimes I think you can just keep my wand. I think of all the Dark spells I performed, all the Unforgiveables I tried to cast with it. But then I remember when I was eleven years old, learning Lumos and casting mending charms, and it's hard to let go of that.
So give me my wand, or give me a timeturner.
Harry has no doubt that Draco - in a pique of frustration after trying to pen a suitably formal letter - wrote this particular message with the intention that it would never be read by anyone, ever, let alone Harry himself. There's a strange honesty and directness in the letter and Harry finds it difficult to imagine Draco - with his cold expressions and inability to express himself beyond childish insults - wrote it.
Do you remember when we were eleven? Let's go back to that.
“Are you practised in the art of Legilimency?”
Harry’s heart drops. He glances away, gazing out into the night. A wind is picking up around the playground, making the swings sway. If Harry listens closely, he can hear the rattle of the chains.
“I can perform the spell,” Harry says at last, “but it won’t work very well. They told me to practise it for my role as Head Auror, and...” he trails off. “I hate it,” he says at last, staring at the swings slowly swaying. Then he turns to Draco and lifts his wand. “But I’ll try.”
“Wait.”
Harry waits. Draco touches a hand to the window, his fingers ghosting across the cold glass as if he’s trying to ground himself somehow.
“All right.”
“Legilimens.”
* * *
It has been a long time since Harry last cast that spell and he winces as soon as he says the word, waiting for the chaotic memories to smash into his mind, waiting to be caught helplessly in the riptide of someone else’s consciousness.
But there is nothing but darkness and silence, and for a moment he thinks he’s failed completely.
Then a scene slowly brightens around him until he’s blinking in the sunlight. Everything seems so bright and crisp; he can see every colour, feel every texture. This is nothing like the pensieve memories. He’s standing in the middle of a field. He holds out a hand, feeling the gold-coloured wheat feather across his fingers. There’s the smell of high summer in the air, the scent of dry air and splintered grass.
He tilts his head back, staring at the sky. That cloudless blue, so pristine and perfect. Maybe he can stay here forever. In an endless summer. Here, in his mind.
Then he slowly turns and walks across the field. The wheat rolls away in every direction, an ocean of gold. In the distance, there’s a thin black road cutting across the land like a scar, a Renault Mégane parked along it.
Harry walks towards it. He feels strangely disconnected from everything. Not happy, not sad, not angry.
Nothing.
He opens the driver’s door and sits down, glancing into the rearview mirror. He can see himself, but at the same time it’s not him. For a moment, his green eyes fade to grey.
He starts the engine and drives. For a moment, all he sees is the road.
Then the images flash through him like a series of photographs, like a wild rush of unhappiness. His parents - no, those are Draco’s - young and smiling again. Lucius will always be the strongest person in the world, and Narcissa the most beautiful, and their family is perfect -
- and then they’re growing old, and Lucius looks so weak and afraid and that’s not supposed to happen, fathers are supposed to be invincible - and it makes him feel sick to his stomach, it makes him terrified -
- Narcissa and Lucius are arguing again, that’s all they seem to do these days, but her voice is getting quieter and quieter because there’s too many people in the house now, Aunt Bellatrix who makes the prisoners scream, scream, scream, until Harry wants to beat his head against the wall or just go to the cellar and Avada Kedavra them all just to put them out of their damn misery -
- or maybe he’ll just Avada Kedavra himself. Then it will all be over. Nobody can control him then. Nobody controls a dead person. But he can’t even do that, and he’s standing in front of a mirror with his wand held to his forehead but he can’t bring himself to do it, it’s pathetic -
- and then the emotions, all the anger and confusion and rage die away along with the war, and Lucius has gone and Narcissa says they’ll join him soon, but he can’t go away. If he runs away, he’ll be just like his father, and isn’t that a cruel irony when he spent half his life wanting to grow up just like his father -
- no, he’s master of the house now, so he has to be the perfect son now, and he can’t run away, he has to set all the finances in order and make sure Narcissa doesn’t fade away to nothing and takes care of herself properly, and he has to make sure everything is perfect, he’ll marry someone and they’ll have a house and respectable lives and everything will be perfect -
But it’s not.
And he feels nothing inside, like the war has cut away everything that used to make him human and and left nothing but a paper cut-out.
I can’t run away, I won’t, I won’t do it -
Harry is suddenly yanked sharply forwards, like an invisible hand has grabbed his collar, and he recognises this place.
He’s standing in an owl emporium.
It’s a warm September day. Summer is still fading from the earth. He’ll purchase a new owl and go home and...
...and start again, every day the same, and he can’t take it anymore. This emptiness, this ceaseless routine, it’s like singing the same song over and over, it’s like drawing lines on maps for journeys he’ll never take, it’s like running on air. He needs to run, run, run, until he can’t hear anybody calling his name anymore, until he forgets everything. Until he’s lost. Until he’s gone.
He walks out of the shop. It’s a warm September day. He could go anywhere.
He Disapparates.
* * *
Harry feels the cold first, and then the rest of his senses filter through. He’s sitting in the driver’s seat of the Renault, but he’s him again. In his own head. It’s night-time, and he’s parked beside a playground in a small village in Hampshire. He glances into the rearview mirror, just to look at his own reflection, just to make sure he’s himself.
He looks beside him, to the passenger seat. Draco sits there, but he looks exhausted, insubstantial as smoke, and Harry realises he’s already fading.
“The worst thing,” Draco says, each word weighted with exhaustion, “is that even now, I’m not sure I want to come back. I ran away, just like my father. It’s all pointless now, isn’t it?”
“You didn’t run away,” Harry says, his heart heavy with emotions, and he can’t tell whether it’s his own sadness or simply remnants of sorrow from Draco’s mind. “You just left for a little while. We all do.” He thinks of Ron leaving them during the search for the Horcruxes; he thinks of himself and the many times he wished for an easy death to deliver him from the choices the war imposed upon him.
“Do you remember,” Draco says, “when we were eleven?”
Harry looks out at the playground, listening to the wind whistling through the chains of the swings.
“Yes,” he says.
Author:
eleventy7
Pairing: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy
Rating: G
Word Count: 74,885 words
Summary: Draco Malfoy has been missing for three years. Harry is assigned the cold case and finds himself slowly falling in love with the memories he collects.
Why I loved this: Okay, I'm not going to lie, I love this author ever since I first read Lonely Moon, which is one of my favorite Harry/Draco fics. So I was beyond excited to find out they had written a new fic and I was not disappointed. It's a slowburn romance, but it needs to be because so much happens in Harry's life as he investigates Draco Malfoy's disappearance. He hates his job, his relationship with Ginny is falling apart, and he doesn't actually know what to do about it other than knowing it needs to change. And while Draco is not actually present in most of the fic, the memories Harry sees gives a better understanding of who he falls in love with. That, I think, is the magic of this fic. Lovely read. ♥
Two hours later, Harry's sitting in the middle of the bed, the objects scattered around him like autumn leaves. A prefect's badge catches the lamplight and shines brightly; an origami rose lays upon a cushion.
Harry, long ago forgetting the purpose of the task and becoming absorbed in tiny details, finds himself poring over the Hogwarts textbooks.
Draco wrote in them. Little notes, scribbled in the margins, from the very first Standard Book of Spells, Grade One to Advanced Potion-Making. It's strange; Harry had always assumed Draco to be irritatingly arrogant and unbearably smug about classwork, but the first-year textbooks reveal pages and pages of notes painstakingly written in the childish hand of an eleven-year-old. Draco had recorded every step and, it seems to Harry, had been fearful of misfiring a spell or using incorrect technique.
It's strange seeing how Draco's handwriting changes over the years. The carefully rounded letters soon give way to a lopsided look and, towards sixth year, the writing develops into a strong and graceful script.
There's little asides dotted throughout the pages. Merlin's beard, this is boring, Draco has written in a Herbology textbook, abruptly cutting off his extensive notes about a Seven-Teethed Tulip. Even more surprising is the frank admission in Advanced Potion-Making: on a page about the uses of beetle legs, Draco has written I don't even care about this subject anymore.
Strange, that Draco would write such thoughts in his textbooks. But, Harry realises, who else could he have confided in? Towards the end of their time at Hogwarts, it became clear Draco didn't trust even his closest friends. And certainly, he couldn't confide in his parents, both of whom were as equally troubled as him.
It must have been lonely. And Harry knows that loneliness well.
Harry turns the pages of Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six. Every now and again, there's an elaborate Celtic knot, but Harry doesn't assign that any meaning. It seems Draco was fond of simply practising the patterns during especially boring classes. There's a few notes here and there, written neatly in the margins. Spell didn't work when attempted to cast on self, Draco's written on one page. Harry frowns and reads the title of the spell. Tranquillo Charm, apparently used to calm people and lessen fear or anxiety.
He shuts the book and stares down at the cover for a long time. There's no seventh-year books. Draco hadn't returned to Hogwarts after the war to complete his schooling, then.
Harry leans across the bed and pulls Draco's notebook towards him. It's a 2003 calendar and diary, filled with neatly written but mundane dates. Weekly withdrawals from Gringotts, scheduled in like clockwork; a reminder to renew his car registration. The final note was written on the day Draco disappeared. Visit family solicitor, 4:30pm. No doubt the errand Draco had planned to complete after purchasing the owl. Nevertheless, it might be worth asking the solicitor about the purpose of Draco's visit, if the solicitor can recall it.
Harry flips through the rest of the notebook, but the pages beyond September 9 are all blank and -
His name.
He stares at the page. November 21. A date apparently selected at random.
Potter,
I believe you have property which is rightfully mine -
The words are quickly crossed out. A draft of a letter, Harry realises, for just beneath it, Draco attempts a second approach.
Dear Potter,
I believe you are currently in possession of a hawthorn wand, unicorn hair core -
Crossed out again. A third attempt, a fourth. The fifth attempt demonstrates a degree of annoyance and begins in a wilful scrawl:
Potter, give me back my wand. It's not like you're using it, anyway. You probably don't even bother with wands anymore. Frankly, I'm waiting for you to ascend the ninth plane and become an anthropomorphic mass of pure energy. Next headline in the Daily Prophet: Saviour Potter Now Classified as New Planet.
Harry can't help but grin. It's quite funny, really. Adding to the amusement is a small drawing Draco did, presumably of Planet Harry: he's drawn a Saturn-esque planet wearing a pair of spectacles. Harry laughs and turns the page, half-hoping to find another amusing drawing, but instead finds more writing. The letter continues, apparently.
Do you remember when we were eleven? Let's go back to that.
The words roll across Harry's mind like waves breaking. He blinks, his smile fading, and begins reading again.
Do you remember when we were eleven? Let's go back to that. I'll throw Remembralls into the sky and you can try to catch them.
Sometimes I think you can just keep my wand. I think of all the Dark spells I performed, all the Unforgiveables I tried to cast with it. But then I remember when I was eleven years old, learning Lumos and casting mending charms, and it's hard to let go of that.
So give me my wand, or give me a timeturner.
Harry has no doubt that Draco - in a pique of frustration after trying to pen a suitably formal letter - wrote this particular message with the intention that it would never be read by anyone, ever, let alone Harry himself. There's a strange honesty and directness in the letter and Harry finds it difficult to imagine Draco - with his cold expressions and inability to express himself beyond childish insults - wrote it.
Do you remember when we were eleven? Let's go back to that.
“Are you practised in the art of Legilimency?”
Harry’s heart drops. He glances away, gazing out into the night. A wind is picking up around the playground, making the swings sway. If Harry listens closely, he can hear the rattle of the chains.
“I can perform the spell,” Harry says at last, “but it won’t work very well. They told me to practise it for my role as Head Auror, and...” he trails off. “I hate it,” he says at last, staring at the swings slowly swaying. Then he turns to Draco and lifts his wand. “But I’ll try.”
“Wait.”
Harry waits. Draco touches a hand to the window, his fingers ghosting across the cold glass as if he’s trying to ground himself somehow.
“All right.”
“Legilimens.”
* * *
It has been a long time since Harry last cast that spell and he winces as soon as he says the word, waiting for the chaotic memories to smash into his mind, waiting to be caught helplessly in the riptide of someone else’s consciousness.
But there is nothing but darkness and silence, and for a moment he thinks he’s failed completely.
Then a scene slowly brightens around him until he’s blinking in the sunlight. Everything seems so bright and crisp; he can see every colour, feel every texture. This is nothing like the pensieve memories. He’s standing in the middle of a field. He holds out a hand, feeling the gold-coloured wheat feather across his fingers. There’s the smell of high summer in the air, the scent of dry air and splintered grass.
He tilts his head back, staring at the sky. That cloudless blue, so pristine and perfect. Maybe he can stay here forever. In an endless summer. Here, in his mind.
Then he slowly turns and walks across the field. The wheat rolls away in every direction, an ocean of gold. In the distance, there’s a thin black road cutting across the land like a scar, a Renault Mégane parked along it.
Harry walks towards it. He feels strangely disconnected from everything. Not happy, not sad, not angry.
Nothing.
He opens the driver’s door and sits down, glancing into the rearview mirror. He can see himself, but at the same time it’s not him. For a moment, his green eyes fade to grey.
He starts the engine and drives. For a moment, all he sees is the road.
Then the images flash through him like a series of photographs, like a wild rush of unhappiness. His parents - no, those are Draco’s - young and smiling again. Lucius will always be the strongest person in the world, and Narcissa the most beautiful, and their family is perfect -
- and then they’re growing old, and Lucius looks so weak and afraid and that’s not supposed to happen, fathers are supposed to be invincible - and it makes him feel sick to his stomach, it makes him terrified -
- Narcissa and Lucius are arguing again, that’s all they seem to do these days, but her voice is getting quieter and quieter because there’s too many people in the house now, Aunt Bellatrix who makes the prisoners scream, scream, scream, until Harry wants to beat his head against the wall or just go to the cellar and Avada Kedavra them all just to put them out of their damn misery -
- or maybe he’ll just Avada Kedavra himself. Then it will all be over. Nobody can control him then. Nobody controls a dead person. But he can’t even do that, and he’s standing in front of a mirror with his wand held to his forehead but he can’t bring himself to do it, it’s pathetic -
- and then the emotions, all the anger and confusion and rage die away along with the war, and Lucius has gone and Narcissa says they’ll join him soon, but he can’t go away. If he runs away, he’ll be just like his father, and isn’t that a cruel irony when he spent half his life wanting to grow up just like his father -
- no, he’s master of the house now, so he has to be the perfect son now, and he can’t run away, he has to set all the finances in order and make sure Narcissa doesn’t fade away to nothing and takes care of herself properly, and he has to make sure everything is perfect, he’ll marry someone and they’ll have a house and respectable lives and everything will be perfect -
But it’s not.
And he feels nothing inside, like the war has cut away everything that used to make him human and and left nothing but a paper cut-out.
I can’t run away, I won’t, I won’t do it -
Harry is suddenly yanked sharply forwards, like an invisible hand has grabbed his collar, and he recognises this place.
He’s standing in an owl emporium.
It’s a warm September day. Summer is still fading from the earth. He’ll purchase a new owl and go home and...
...and start again, every day the same, and he can’t take it anymore. This emptiness, this ceaseless routine, it’s like singing the same song over and over, it’s like drawing lines on maps for journeys he’ll never take, it’s like running on air. He needs to run, run, run, until he can’t hear anybody calling his name anymore, until he forgets everything. Until he’s lost. Until he’s gone.
He walks out of the shop. It’s a warm September day. He could go anywhere.
He Disapparates.
* * *
Harry feels the cold first, and then the rest of his senses filter through. He’s sitting in the driver’s seat of the Renault, but he’s him again. In his own head. It’s night-time, and he’s parked beside a playground in a small village in Hampshire. He glances into the rearview mirror, just to look at his own reflection, just to make sure he’s himself.
He looks beside him, to the passenger seat. Draco sits there, but he looks exhausted, insubstantial as smoke, and Harry realises he’s already fading.
“The worst thing,” Draco says, each word weighted with exhaustion, “is that even now, I’m not sure I want to come back. I ran away, just like my father. It’s all pointless now, isn’t it?”
“You didn’t run away,” Harry says, his heart heavy with emotions, and he can’t tell whether it’s his own sadness or simply remnants of sorrow from Draco’s mind. “You just left for a little while. We all do.” He thinks of Ron leaving them during the search for the Horcruxes; he thinks of himself and the many times he wished for an easy death to deliver him from the choices the war imposed upon him.
“Do you remember,” Draco says, “when we were eleven?”
Harry looks out at the playground, listening to the wind whistling through the chains of the swings.
“Yes,” he says.