reposted fest fic: Why Is Parchment Like a Boomerang? [H/D - PG - 3.1k]
Title: Why Is Parchment Like a Boomerang?
Author: joan_waterhouse
Travel Destination: Wonderland (as in Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland)
Rating: PG
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco
Summary: That's when Harry knows that this isn't going to go like he wants it to, not like it always goes. This is different. Somehow more real than his daydreams usually are. A bit more like living.
Warnings: pre-slash
Word Count: 3100
Author's Notes: Re-post of my entry to the hd_fan_fair.
Thank you so much to the lovely vaysh11 for betaing and help with the title. ♥
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended. All rhymes and poems are based on those found in Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.
Why Is Parchment Like a Boomerang?
"Speak roughly to the grown ups, boy,
And beat them when they fail
To bring you happiness and joy,
And presents in the mail."
*
There were all kinds of relatives and acquaintances visiting. Each and every one of them was laden with presents, some bumping against the walls as they tried to manoeuvre an exceptionally big parcel through the hallway.
Harry was spending Dudley's seventh birthday like he spent every day: in the cupboard under the stairs. He never saw any of the guests, nor the presents they brought. He only heard how Dudley tore the wrapping off, heard his squeals of joy and cries of disapproval.
It was already late - the cake had been eaten ("Does sweetums want another helping?"), the guests were stuffed and tired and thus quiet - when the doorbell rang for one last time. Harry heard Uncle Vernon stomp to the door and Dudley huffing in his wake.
"Vernon. Dudley," a soft female voice exclaimed. "I am so sorry to be late."
"Not at all. Not at all," grunted Uncle Vernon in reply.
"Is this my present?" And that was Dudley’s voice.
"Yes, my boy. Happy Birthday."
Paper was torn very noisily.
"What is this?"
"This is the first edition of Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. It is a very special book."
"Well, thank you very much, Miriam," Uncle Vernon said. "Thank you ever so much for this ... thoughtful present."
There was the sound of pages being turned. Then, "It's boring! Boring. All the pictures are ugly. There isn't even colour! It's terrible!"
With this Dudley stormed back into the living room. Something hard collided with a wall, skidded along the floor and bumped against the cupboard door.
There was apologetic laughter from Uncle Vernon and silence from Miriam. "You know how kids are. Come inside, come inside."
When all was silent except for the clatter of cutlery and voices from the direction of the living room, Harry very carefully opened the door of his cupboard.
The book was bound in brown leather and had golden letters on its spine. The pages were almost yellow and even darker along the edges, with tiny smudges and dots all over the paper. There were black and white pictures inside, just like Dudley had said, but Harry didn't think they were ugly at all.
*
Turn the pages of this book -
Yours it is by chance.
Come and take a closer look
At creatures joined in dance.
They'll lift your loneliness away
into a vivid trance.
*
Nobody ever missed the book. Harry kept it hidden in the crack between his bed and the wall.
He would read in it before he went to sleep; he would read after he awoke. He would read about Alice as a witness in court when Dudley'd kicked him in the shin; he'd read about Pig and Pepper when everybody had gone to the zoo and he had to stay home and weed the garden; and on his birthday, when all he'd got was a harsh "'suppose you're a year older then" from Uncle Vernon he would read about Alice having tea with the Mad Hatter.
Harry soon knew the story by heart. But every time he re-read the book he'd find something new, or he'd understand something that he’d thought before was nonsense.
Many children had imaginary friends, but Harry, oh, Harry had a whole imaginary world.
*
"What matters it how far you went?" then was his remark.
"There is another land, you know, as peaceful as a park.
The further off from Hogwarts the nearer is to 'meade -
So don't be shy, do dry your eye and come and take the lead.
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you take the lead?
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you take the lead?"
*
Harry flung himself down on his bed and spelled the curtains shut. He closed his eyes, pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, but still he saw Malfoy's dot on the Marauders Map, saw Malfoy crying in the bathroom, saw Malfoy deadly wounded from the Prince's spell. That Harry had cast. And Harry didn't feel triumphant at all. He saw Snape nearly finding out about the Prince's book, saw Hermione and Ginny fighting over it, and saw Ron staying quiet. But all Harry wanted to do was to go back, like a defiant child, and read in the Prince’s book some more. He took a deep breath, punched his pillow into shape and lay down his head.
He reached his hand into the crack between mattress and bed frame. The leather cover of his book, the one that had never betrayed him so far, was cool and smooth. Harry let his fingers run along its spine, traced the outline of the golden letters, and chose a destination.
**
"Who are you?" the Caterpillar asks. His eyes twinkle behind his half-moon spectacles.
"I-I hardly know, Sir, just at present," Harry answers, because this is how this dialogue is supposed to go. "At least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then." And the lines are rather fitting too, he thinks.
"Of course, of course. Deflecting an Unforgivable with a spell you've never tried before does that to you," the Caterpillar murmurs and then asks, "lemon drop?"
That's when Harry knows that this isn't going to go like he wants it to, not like it always goes. This is different. Somehow more real than his daydreams usually are. A bit more like living. So he says, "Um, yes please," and takes a lemon drop and puts it in his mouth.
It tastes like sunshine and cooling rain, like good advice that turns out too hard to follow.
Then it's as if something took hold of a spot behind his navel and is pulling him forward. Everything is spinning and racing towards him and Harry falls.
*
He lands ungently on a wooden floor, accidentally swallows the lemon drop, starts coughing and hits his head on what must be the ceiling.
Harry's left foot is sticking out a window, his right knee is pressed against a tall wardrobe. There has to be a bottle labeled "Drink Me!" somewhere, he thinks and turns his head to have a look around. There's no bottle, but next to his hand is a letter. It's been placed on a chest of drawers and weighed down by a small vase. The address is written in neat green letters:
Harry's Lips
Right under His Nose
(confidential)
Harry pushes the vase aside, is careful not to destroy the tiny furniture. He takes the letter and lifts it to his nose. It smells a bit like tea leaves.
Once the seal is opened the letter starts to unfold itself to reveal initials. But Harry hardly has time to read them - something with a B or D, he thinks - because there's suddenly something brushing against his lips, and that's a bit weird to say the least. He can't see where it's coming from, there is nothing but air in front of his face, but the sensation is getting more intense. It feels like lips pressing against his, as if somebody invisible is licking his bottom lip. Harry thinks that it should feel surprising and unwanted, that it should make him feel uncomfortable not to know whose lips these are. But it just feels like something he had wished for, something he'd never said out loud. And so he relaxes and closes his eyes and imagines someone smelling like expensive cologne and broom wax and a bit like something Harry thinks might be Dittany, someone with an elegant nose and perfect hair, someone tall and handsome and far too much trouble to be ever, ever a good idea for a fantasy.
Harry reaches his hand out to find purchase on the window sill; he feels the soft soil in the window box on his fingers. And no, not now, he definitely could have stayed in this part of the story longer, but he's yanked away again and falling.
*
There is a table set out by the great lake. Thick oak, no tablecloth, ten teapots, numerous cups in all colours and shapes. A house-elf is chasing up and down the length of the table. The Mad Hatter and the March Hare are having tea. A boy is sat between them and they are using him as a cushion, resting their elbows on his arms. His face is pale, unseeing eyes open wide, green tie loosened, faint red stains seeping through his white shirt.
Malfoy looks barely more alive than when Harry'd last seen him in the bathroom. He is breathing hard, as if he has to concentrate not to faint. With every breath his chest rises, stretches the fabric of his shirt, lets his collarbone show. Across his face, all the way down from his right eye to his chin, there is a silvery scar.
"No room for you!" the Mad Hatter cries once he spots Harry. He glares for a good ten seconds, then he picks up his knife and resumes to spread butter on a slice of bread. "Well, not unless you got rid of the Prince's book."
"What's it to you?" Harry snaps, mostly out of habit, and then quickly adds, "um, I did, actually. Get rid of the book, I mean." He settles down in the large arm-chair at the end of the table.
The Mad Hatter raises his eyebrows as if to make an objection, but then he just gestures for the house-elf to pour Harry some tea.
When Harry's cup's been filled and the proper amount of sugar and milk added, the Hatter turns to him once more, gesticulates wildly with his butter knife and asks in a very serious voice, "Why is parchment like a boomerang?"
"Why," repeats the March Hare immediately and tightens its grip on Malfoy's arm, "why is parchment like a boomerang?"
Harry puts down his cup of tea and frowns; he's not in the mood for riddles. Not for these kinds of riddles at any rate. Not when Malfoy randomly appears where he most certainly doesn't belong. He is still just staring into the distance, from time to time he blinks slowly. And Harry considers just asking him what he’s doing here, if he'd just look a bit more responsive.
As if he's heard Harry's thoughts, the house-elf stops bustling around for a second and says, "Master Malfoy is the guest of honour. It is his new birthday."
"There was a broken pocket watch in his chest," the Mad Hatter clarifies, evidently annoyed at the change of subject. "We took it out and filled the hole with treacle instead. Now he works again."
"Yes, now he works again!" The March Hare says and pats Malfoy's head. "Don't you, my pretty?"
But Malfoy just takes a deep breath and keeps staring, so Harry says, "I don't know. He looks pretty broken to me."
The Mad Hatter gets up from his chair, puffs out his chest as if he felt seriously insulted by what Harry’s said, narrows his eyes and spits, "And what would you know about it? Hm? Mr Harry I Try Out Every Spell I Find Potter? What would you know about how this boy works? Ever opened his chest and looked inside? Hm? He was leaking red stuff all over the place when we found him and now..." The Hatter pokes at Malfoy's chest. "... completely red-stuff-proof again!"
When Harry points out that, no offence, but Malfoy is just staring and how can that be considered "working", the Hatter looks taken aback. He nudges Malfoy's right hand, raises it a bit, then lets it fall again. Nothing. He pokes at Malfoy's nose. Again nothing.
"Potter might be right," the March Hare exclaims and grips the Hatter's arm. "I know exactly what's missing..."
Both of them get very excited then and cry in unison, "Butter!"
"Quick! Fipsy, get the sharp knife," the Hatter adds and pushes Malfoy down in his seat.
The house-elf squeaks and knocks over a number of cups as he tries to hide under the table, all the while hitting himself over the head with a spoon. "No, no, no, no! Not again!"
Then the March Hare is holding Malfoy down, while the Mad Hatter pours some tea over Malfoy's nose.
"Now then, that should keep him sedated. Pass the knife, Mr I Can Do Whatever I Like, will you? We'll have him cut open in no time. A little butter, maybe a dash of mustard, and he'll be as good as new!"
Harry reaches for his wand. There is no wand. Where by Merlin is his wand? "Wait, what? No, you can't do that," he cries and scrambles forward. He can't just let them cut Malfoy open. Wizards don't have watches for hearts, wizards don't need treacle and butter and maybe a dash of mustard poured inside their chests.
He is on the other side of the table now and almost close enough to reach for Malfoy when things begin to shift. The house-elf's hair grows long and blond; the Hatter's nose gets big and crooked; and the March Hare seems to have lost his nose entirely.
"Off with his head!" the one who moments ago had been the Hare and now looks more and more like Voldemort orders and points at Harry. "He can't stop us. Young Malfoy has a duty to fulfil and if he fails, we can do whatever we like to make him."
Just as Harry takes the sugar bowl and prepares to smash it over Voldemort's head, he feels the pull behind his navel. The last thing he sees before he falls is Malfoy turning his head and looking directly into his eyes as he quietly says, "This isn't just your dream, Potter."
*
A Snake one day locked up his heart,
and threw the key away:
A Lion came, so very smart,
and found it anyway.
*
There is not a second to gain his breath. Harry's hand gets squashed in a tight grip, it feels as if someone is trying to tear off Harry's arm. He tries to follow the pull, stumbles a bit, finds his footing again and keeps running.
The someone pulling Harry over a croquet field at a mad speed is Malfoy.
"The Queen made some tarts," he chokes out between hasty breaths, "and I stole them." Then he laughs and pushes Harry behind a hedge. "Shh, we have to hide."
For reasons Harry isn't quite prepared to admit it feels incredibly good to see Malfoy laughing, mischievous, alive. And he is still holding Harry's hand. It feels a bit sweaty, but good, and Harry hopes he doesn't let go. He can't help but smile, too.
Malfoy is standing so close Harry can feel the heat radiating off his body, can see his Adam's apple bob when he swallows. Malfoy smells like tea leaves, strong, intoxicating and Harry wants to lean forward and whisper against his lips, just loud enough to be audible, I'm glad that you're alive.
But he doesn't.
Instead he snatches his hand away as he realises that he's tracing the faint scar on Malfoy's face, looks down at the tips of his own shoes and mumbles, "I'm sorry." And when Malfoy fails to punch him in the face he raises his eyes again and repeats a bit louder and meaning something completely different, "I'm sorry. I really am."
Malfoy reacts then, does something Harry hadn't been expecting at all; he just leans forward and presses his lips against Harry's. And Harry doesn't know if this is just his unconscious mind finally giving in to madness or if maybe, just maybe, judging by how much this kiss feels like fighting and biting, there's the chance that a bit of Malfoy's unconscious mind is at work here, too. That maybe Malfoy has managed to escape the March Voldemort Hare and fled to this place. And Harry doesn't even know why it matters so much, because it feels so real and he just wants to laugh out loud, because Yes! this is what he's been keeping from himself and now he wants if forever.
He slides his arms around Malfoy's sides and kisses him some more, lets his hand slide down, pushes it into Malfoy's back pocket to feel and finds hard, round, ticking metal on a chain and no, no, no, not again. But there it is, he's falling and falling and it takes longer this time.
**
Unlikely one! With such fierce power,
my small heart you tether.
My protest, it is weak and faint,
't won't stir the tiniest feather!
It is my strongest wish one day
to press our lips together.
*
When Harry woke in his bed, red curtains drawn around him, it was almost morning. Without a second thought he reached for his Invisibility Cloak, wrapped it tight around himself and made his way out of the dormitory.
It was eerily quiet in the castle, so quiet that he could hear his own heart pounding in his chest as he made his way down the stairs. He didn't have a plan, really, he just knew that this bubbling joy that still felt so real even now had to mean something. And maybe this something was what Harry wanted it to be.
With that thought in mind he pushed open the door to the Hospital Wing. Malfoy was lying asleep in a bed on the far side of the room. He was breathing heavily and had one hand clutched in the blanket, white knuckles showing. Harry went over and sat down beside him, careful not to let the cloak slip.
Malfoy flinched and frowned in his sleep, made a sound as if to say No, I don’t like that. But when Harry whispered, "Shhh," and reached for his hand, covered it invisibly, Malfoy took a deep breath and relaxed.
Maybe Malfoy would punch him for real when he woke up, but maybe he wouldn't. There was only one way to find out. And so, with the first rays of sunshine creeping slowly over mountain tops towards Hogwarts, Harry sat unseen at the edge of Malfoy's bed, held his hand and waited for dawn.
*
Thus grew the tale of Wonderland:
Thus colourful and fine.
Dream to reality must bend -
The rising sun will shine.
But I refuse to let it end
And take your hand in mine.
***
Author: joan_waterhouse
Travel Destination: Wonderland (as in Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland)
Rating: PG
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco
Summary: That's when Harry knows that this isn't going to go like he wants it to, not like it always goes. This is different. Somehow more real than his daydreams usually are. A bit more like living.
Warnings: pre-slash
Word Count: 3100
Author's Notes: Re-post of my entry to the hd_fan_fair.
Thank you so much to the lovely vaysh11 for betaing and help with the title. ♥
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended. All rhymes and poems are based on those found in Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.
Why Is Parchment Like a Boomerang?
"Speak roughly to the grown ups, boy,
And beat them when they fail
To bring you happiness and joy,
And presents in the mail."
*
There were all kinds of relatives and acquaintances visiting. Each and every one of them was laden with presents, some bumping against the walls as they tried to manoeuvre an exceptionally big parcel through the hallway.
Harry was spending Dudley's seventh birthday like he spent every day: in the cupboard under the stairs. He never saw any of the guests, nor the presents they brought. He only heard how Dudley tore the wrapping off, heard his squeals of joy and cries of disapproval.
It was already late - the cake had been eaten ("Does sweetums want another helping?"), the guests were stuffed and tired and thus quiet - when the doorbell rang for one last time. Harry heard Uncle Vernon stomp to the door and Dudley huffing in his wake.
"Vernon. Dudley," a soft female voice exclaimed. "I am so sorry to be late."
"Not at all. Not at all," grunted Uncle Vernon in reply.
"Is this my present?" And that was Dudley’s voice.
"Yes, my boy. Happy Birthday."
Paper was torn very noisily.
"What is this?"
"This is the first edition of Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. It is a very special book."
"Well, thank you very much, Miriam," Uncle Vernon said. "Thank you ever so much for this ... thoughtful present."
There was the sound of pages being turned. Then, "It's boring! Boring. All the pictures are ugly. There isn't even colour! It's terrible!"
With this Dudley stormed back into the living room. Something hard collided with a wall, skidded along the floor and bumped against the cupboard door.
There was apologetic laughter from Uncle Vernon and silence from Miriam. "You know how kids are. Come inside, come inside."
When all was silent except for the clatter of cutlery and voices from the direction of the living room, Harry very carefully opened the door of his cupboard.
The book was bound in brown leather and had golden letters on its spine. The pages were almost yellow and even darker along the edges, with tiny smudges and dots all over the paper. There were black and white pictures inside, just like Dudley had said, but Harry didn't think they were ugly at all.
*
Turn the pages of this book -
Yours it is by chance.
Come and take a closer look
At creatures joined in dance.
They'll lift your loneliness away
into a vivid trance.
*
Nobody ever missed the book. Harry kept it hidden in the crack between his bed and the wall.
He would read in it before he went to sleep; he would read after he awoke. He would read about Alice as a witness in court when Dudley'd kicked him in the shin; he'd read about Pig and Pepper when everybody had gone to the zoo and he had to stay home and weed the garden; and on his birthday, when all he'd got was a harsh "'suppose you're a year older then" from Uncle Vernon he would read about Alice having tea with the Mad Hatter.
Harry soon knew the story by heart. But every time he re-read the book he'd find something new, or he'd understand something that he’d thought before was nonsense.
Many children had imaginary friends, but Harry, oh, Harry had a whole imaginary world.
*
"What matters it how far you went?" then was his remark.
"There is another land, you know, as peaceful as a park.
The further off from Hogwarts the nearer is to 'meade -
So don't be shy, do dry your eye and come and take the lead.
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you take the lead?
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you take the lead?"
*
Harry flung himself down on his bed and spelled the curtains shut. He closed his eyes, pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, but still he saw Malfoy's dot on the Marauders Map, saw Malfoy crying in the bathroom, saw Malfoy deadly wounded from the Prince's spell. That Harry had cast. And Harry didn't feel triumphant at all. He saw Snape nearly finding out about the Prince's book, saw Hermione and Ginny fighting over it, and saw Ron staying quiet. But all Harry wanted to do was to go back, like a defiant child, and read in the Prince’s book some more. He took a deep breath, punched his pillow into shape and lay down his head.
He reached his hand into the crack between mattress and bed frame. The leather cover of his book, the one that had never betrayed him so far, was cool and smooth. Harry let his fingers run along its spine, traced the outline of the golden letters, and chose a destination.
**
"Who are you?" the Caterpillar asks. His eyes twinkle behind his half-moon spectacles.
"I-I hardly know, Sir, just at present," Harry answers, because this is how this dialogue is supposed to go. "At least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then." And the lines are rather fitting too, he thinks.
"Of course, of course. Deflecting an Unforgivable with a spell you've never tried before does that to you," the Caterpillar murmurs and then asks, "lemon drop?"
That's when Harry knows that this isn't going to go like he wants it to, not like it always goes. This is different. Somehow more real than his daydreams usually are. A bit more like living. So he says, "Um, yes please," and takes a lemon drop and puts it in his mouth.
It tastes like sunshine and cooling rain, like good advice that turns out too hard to follow.
Then it's as if something took hold of a spot behind his navel and is pulling him forward. Everything is spinning and racing towards him and Harry falls.
*
He lands ungently on a wooden floor, accidentally swallows the lemon drop, starts coughing and hits his head on what must be the ceiling.
Harry's left foot is sticking out a window, his right knee is pressed against a tall wardrobe. There has to be a bottle labeled "Drink Me!" somewhere, he thinks and turns his head to have a look around. There's no bottle, but next to his hand is a letter. It's been placed on a chest of drawers and weighed down by a small vase. The address is written in neat green letters:
Harry's Lips
Right under His Nose
(confidential)
Harry pushes the vase aside, is careful not to destroy the tiny furniture. He takes the letter and lifts it to his nose. It smells a bit like tea leaves.
Once the seal is opened the letter starts to unfold itself to reveal initials. But Harry hardly has time to read them - something with a B or D, he thinks - because there's suddenly something brushing against his lips, and that's a bit weird to say the least. He can't see where it's coming from, there is nothing but air in front of his face, but the sensation is getting more intense. It feels like lips pressing against his, as if somebody invisible is licking his bottom lip. Harry thinks that it should feel surprising and unwanted, that it should make him feel uncomfortable not to know whose lips these are. But it just feels like something he had wished for, something he'd never said out loud. And so he relaxes and closes his eyes and imagines someone smelling like expensive cologne and broom wax and a bit like something Harry thinks might be Dittany, someone with an elegant nose and perfect hair, someone tall and handsome and far too much trouble to be ever, ever a good idea for a fantasy.
Harry reaches his hand out to find purchase on the window sill; he feels the soft soil in the window box on his fingers. And no, not now, he definitely could have stayed in this part of the story longer, but he's yanked away again and falling.
*
There is a table set out by the great lake. Thick oak, no tablecloth, ten teapots, numerous cups in all colours and shapes. A house-elf is chasing up and down the length of the table. The Mad Hatter and the March Hare are having tea. A boy is sat between them and they are using him as a cushion, resting their elbows on his arms. His face is pale, unseeing eyes open wide, green tie loosened, faint red stains seeping through his white shirt.
Malfoy looks barely more alive than when Harry'd last seen him in the bathroom. He is breathing hard, as if he has to concentrate not to faint. With every breath his chest rises, stretches the fabric of his shirt, lets his collarbone show. Across his face, all the way down from his right eye to his chin, there is a silvery scar.
"No room for you!" the Mad Hatter cries once he spots Harry. He glares for a good ten seconds, then he picks up his knife and resumes to spread butter on a slice of bread. "Well, not unless you got rid of the Prince's book."
"What's it to you?" Harry snaps, mostly out of habit, and then quickly adds, "um, I did, actually. Get rid of the book, I mean." He settles down in the large arm-chair at the end of the table.
The Mad Hatter raises his eyebrows as if to make an objection, but then he just gestures for the house-elf to pour Harry some tea.
When Harry's cup's been filled and the proper amount of sugar and milk added, the Hatter turns to him once more, gesticulates wildly with his butter knife and asks in a very serious voice, "Why is parchment like a boomerang?"
"Why," repeats the March Hare immediately and tightens its grip on Malfoy's arm, "why is parchment like a boomerang?"
Harry puts down his cup of tea and frowns; he's not in the mood for riddles. Not for these kinds of riddles at any rate. Not when Malfoy randomly appears where he most certainly doesn't belong. He is still just staring into the distance, from time to time he blinks slowly. And Harry considers just asking him what he’s doing here, if he'd just look a bit more responsive.
As if he's heard Harry's thoughts, the house-elf stops bustling around for a second and says, "Master Malfoy is the guest of honour. It is his new birthday."
"There was a broken pocket watch in his chest," the Mad Hatter clarifies, evidently annoyed at the change of subject. "We took it out and filled the hole with treacle instead. Now he works again."
"Yes, now he works again!" The March Hare says and pats Malfoy's head. "Don't you, my pretty?"
But Malfoy just takes a deep breath and keeps staring, so Harry says, "I don't know. He looks pretty broken to me."
The Mad Hatter gets up from his chair, puffs out his chest as if he felt seriously insulted by what Harry’s said, narrows his eyes and spits, "And what would you know about it? Hm? Mr Harry I Try Out Every Spell I Find Potter? What would you know about how this boy works? Ever opened his chest and looked inside? Hm? He was leaking red stuff all over the place when we found him and now..." The Hatter pokes at Malfoy's chest. "... completely red-stuff-proof again!"
When Harry points out that, no offence, but Malfoy is just staring and how can that be considered "working", the Hatter looks taken aback. He nudges Malfoy's right hand, raises it a bit, then lets it fall again. Nothing. He pokes at Malfoy's nose. Again nothing.
"Potter might be right," the March Hare exclaims and grips the Hatter's arm. "I know exactly what's missing..."
Both of them get very excited then and cry in unison, "Butter!"
"Quick! Fipsy, get the sharp knife," the Hatter adds and pushes Malfoy down in his seat.
The house-elf squeaks and knocks over a number of cups as he tries to hide under the table, all the while hitting himself over the head with a spoon. "No, no, no, no! Not again!"
Then the March Hare is holding Malfoy down, while the Mad Hatter pours some tea over Malfoy's nose.
"Now then, that should keep him sedated. Pass the knife, Mr I Can Do Whatever I Like, will you? We'll have him cut open in no time. A little butter, maybe a dash of mustard, and he'll be as good as new!"
Harry reaches for his wand. There is no wand. Where by Merlin is his wand? "Wait, what? No, you can't do that," he cries and scrambles forward. He can't just let them cut Malfoy open. Wizards don't have watches for hearts, wizards don't need treacle and butter and maybe a dash of mustard poured inside their chests.
He is on the other side of the table now and almost close enough to reach for Malfoy when things begin to shift. The house-elf's hair grows long and blond; the Hatter's nose gets big and crooked; and the March Hare seems to have lost his nose entirely.
"Off with his head!" the one who moments ago had been the Hare and now looks more and more like Voldemort orders and points at Harry. "He can't stop us. Young Malfoy has a duty to fulfil and if he fails, we can do whatever we like to make him."
Just as Harry takes the sugar bowl and prepares to smash it over Voldemort's head, he feels the pull behind his navel. The last thing he sees before he falls is Malfoy turning his head and looking directly into his eyes as he quietly says, "This isn't just your dream, Potter."
*
A Snake one day locked up his heart,
and threw the key away:
A Lion came, so very smart,
and found it anyway.
*
There is not a second to gain his breath. Harry's hand gets squashed in a tight grip, it feels as if someone is trying to tear off Harry's arm. He tries to follow the pull, stumbles a bit, finds his footing again and keeps running.
The someone pulling Harry over a croquet field at a mad speed is Malfoy.
"The Queen made some tarts," he chokes out between hasty breaths, "and I stole them." Then he laughs and pushes Harry behind a hedge. "Shh, we have to hide."
For reasons Harry isn't quite prepared to admit it feels incredibly good to see Malfoy laughing, mischievous, alive. And he is still holding Harry's hand. It feels a bit sweaty, but good, and Harry hopes he doesn't let go. He can't help but smile, too.
Malfoy is standing so close Harry can feel the heat radiating off his body, can see his Adam's apple bob when he swallows. Malfoy smells like tea leaves, strong, intoxicating and Harry wants to lean forward and whisper against his lips, just loud enough to be audible, I'm glad that you're alive.
But he doesn't.
Instead he snatches his hand away as he realises that he's tracing the faint scar on Malfoy's face, looks down at the tips of his own shoes and mumbles, "I'm sorry." And when Malfoy fails to punch him in the face he raises his eyes again and repeats a bit louder and meaning something completely different, "I'm sorry. I really am."
Malfoy reacts then, does something Harry hadn't been expecting at all; he just leans forward and presses his lips against Harry's. And Harry doesn't know if this is just his unconscious mind finally giving in to madness or if maybe, just maybe, judging by how much this kiss feels like fighting and biting, there's the chance that a bit of Malfoy's unconscious mind is at work here, too. That maybe Malfoy has managed to escape the March Voldemort Hare and fled to this place. And Harry doesn't even know why it matters so much, because it feels so real and he just wants to laugh out loud, because Yes! this is what he's been keeping from himself and now he wants if forever.
He slides his arms around Malfoy's sides and kisses him some more, lets his hand slide down, pushes it into Malfoy's back pocket to feel and finds hard, round, ticking metal on a chain and no, no, no, not again. But there it is, he's falling and falling and it takes longer this time.
**
Unlikely one! With such fierce power,
my small heart you tether.
My protest, it is weak and faint,
't won't stir the tiniest feather!
It is my strongest wish one day
to press our lips together.
*
When Harry woke in his bed, red curtains drawn around him, it was almost morning. Without a second thought he reached for his Invisibility Cloak, wrapped it tight around himself and made his way out of the dormitory.
It was eerily quiet in the castle, so quiet that he could hear his own heart pounding in his chest as he made his way down the stairs. He didn't have a plan, really, he just knew that this bubbling joy that still felt so real even now had to mean something. And maybe this something was what Harry wanted it to be.
With that thought in mind he pushed open the door to the Hospital Wing. Malfoy was lying asleep in a bed on the far side of the room. He was breathing heavily and had one hand clutched in the blanket, white knuckles showing. Harry went over and sat down beside him, careful not to let the cloak slip.
Malfoy flinched and frowned in his sleep, made a sound as if to say No, I don’t like that. But when Harry whispered, "Shhh," and reached for his hand, covered it invisibly, Malfoy took a deep breath and relaxed.
Maybe Malfoy would punch him for real when he woke up, but maybe he wouldn't. There was only one way to find out. And so, with the first rays of sunshine creeping slowly over mountain tops towards Hogwarts, Harry sat unseen at the edge of Malfoy's bed, held his hand and waited for dawn.
*
Thus grew the tale of Wonderland:
Thus colourful and fine.
Dream to reality must bend -
The rising sun will shine.
But I refuse to let it end
And take your hand in mine.
***