Cactus Angels (Epilogue)
OMFG! I am finally done with it!
*does happy dance*
...
*naked* ;D
Title: Cactus Angels
Pairing: H/D
Rating: Strong NC-17
Warnings: slash, S&M, knife-play, graphic sex; anal and oral. I'm sure I am forgetting a few things. Anyway, you get the idea. If this isn't your cup of tea, move on./Not beta'd.
Notes: It's been a while, so if you've read this and don't remember some things, you might not really get the ending of this. If you're unsure, you might want to go back and skim through a few things. Just saying.
“Master Draco, sir, you must eats.”
Draco snarled at the house elf and blindly picked up the nearest object that came to hand and hurled it at the insufferable creature. “Get out!”
Popkin threw up her hand and the priceless Ming vase halted in the air and floated safely down to her hand. “Master Draco,” she said, carefully placing the vase on a table out of his way, “you is not well.”
Draco turned and glared at her. “Do you think I need some mangy little carpet mite to tell me that?”
“Master Draco, your mother…”
“Is bat-shit insane,” Draco said cheerfully. “I know. It’s made her a much nicer person, over all, don’t you think?”
The house elf blinked at him rapidly and fidgeted. She really didn’t know how to answer that kind of question. House elves in the Malfoy household were not accustomed to being asked for their opinions…and this particular question sounded like something that could have her spending the rest of the evening ironing her fingertips.
“Master Draco, your mother worries.”
“My mother worries,” Draco mimicked. “Of course she does. She worries constantly that the dining room table and the sitting room drapes are conspiring together to bring about her untimely demise. It makes for very awkward dinner conversations, or have you somehow failed to notice?”
“Master Draco-”
Draco hissed at the elf and turned his back on it. “Go away,” he whispered fiercely. He lifted a hand and swiped it through his hair, then tilted his head back and stood there staring up at the ceiling. “Please, please…go take care of my mother. Rescue her from the furniture, do…whatever it is you do. Just please…go away.”
Popkin sighed. “Yes, Master Draco,” she said, and hurried away to find Narcissa.
“Yes, Master Draco,” Draco muttered. He gave a short bark of laughter and flopped down into the nearest chair.
Not for the first time, he wondered if perhaps he should not have gone to war with the Dark Lord. It had been expected-everyone had expected it, even Harry.
Harry.
Harry was the reason why he had not gone. He couldn’t bear the thought of looking over the end of his wand and meeting those innocent green eyes. He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t make that choice, to kill or die, and so he did nothing. He stayed home and kept his mad mother company. He had tea with her in the afternoon and listened to her go on about how his father should be home shortly, he was late for tea today, that wasn’t like him.
And when news of the war reached him, when the growing list of the dead could not be ignored…he remembered Harry’s eyes, Harry’s skin, Harry’s voice, those soft baby kitten sounds that he made when Draco touched him just so or fucked him just right. He remembered that and he stayed away.
Let them have their war, the light and the dark. It was nothing to him. He had always held more kinship with shades of grey.
****************
Narcissa did not question her sanity. She was past that point. She knew she was crazy, had known it for quite some time now. It started happening about a month after Lucius was thrown in Azkaban. She’d fought it at first, but when the desktop lamp started whispering to her and the second floor banister started telling her stories, she’d given it up. She’d never been one of those women who went in much for denial.
Besides, the banister really was a pretty good conversationalist.
One of the benefits of being insane, she had discovered, was that no one expected you to behave sanely. Which meant that no one tried to tell her to stop talking to the bookshelves, and this was good, because she really liked talking to the bookshelves. She had learned so many fascinating things that way.
“Mistress ‘Cissa.”
Narcissa turned her head and looked around for the voice. It was a tiny voice. Like the voice of a little bird…or one of her fancy little china teacups. Teacups were not good conversationalists. Bit annoying, really.
“Mistress ‘Cissa,” the voice said urgently again.
“Hmmm?” There was a tug on her sleeve and Narcissa looked down. Two protuberant brown eyes blinked up at her. “Oh, it’s only you.”
“Yes, Mistress,” Popkin said. “Master Draco is…”
“Disturbed,” Narcissa said cheerfully. “Yes, I know. Isn’t it dreadful?”
“He-”
“He’s grieving, you know,” Narcissa said, plucking a slim volume from the shelf in front of her and smiling faintly at the soft whisper that accompanied its removal. “Oh, come now, it’s not so bad,” she soothed. “Voltaire…Well that doesn’t mean it’s fit for burning.”
Popkin cocked her head to one side and tried to hear whatever it was her lady was obviously hearing. “Mistress-”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Narcissa said dismissively. “He grieves for that boy. Don’t we all…”
“Mis-”
“Idiot child. Should have known better than to get involved in that kind of thing with that one.”
“Mistress-”
“Pain,” Narcissa muttered. She put Voltaire back on the shelf, to the consternation of the bookshelf, who really was not a fan. “The boy likes it. Who would have thought? Of course, one gets used to such things…learns to crave them…but that one-he was born to it. Or so Draco believes. And he may be right. He is in more position to know than I, certainly.”
The house elf had no idea what or who her lady was going on about.
There was a sudden loud banging at the front door.
Narcissa looked up as the house elf started to go open it. “No, no, let me. You go…bash yourself with the teapot or something.”
Popkin gave her mistress a grateful look and left to do just that, thinking to herself that humans were very odd creatures.
Narcissa apologized to the doorknob before she opened the door to see who it was.
A dark hooded figure stood on the stoop in the rain.
Narcissa smiled. “Oh, it’s you. Well come in then, don’t just stand there on the mat, it makes him irritable.”
“Thank you,” Harry said. He studied Narcissa for a moment. He could see her madness. Hell, he could almost smell it on her. He tried to feel something about that; sympathy, pity, empathy-anything at all. He couldn’t. He saw Draco in her features, in the way she held her head, slightly tilted to one side, in the impossibly pale fall of her hair, and he couldn’t think or feel anything else.
Narcissa closed the door and turned to him with an expectant look. “Well?”
“I…” Harry faltered. “I…I have to see him. Please. I…”
“Yes, of course,” Narcissa said, speaking gently, as one would to an injured animal. “You must see him.”
Harry sighed and lifted a trembling hand to his face. “Thank you.”
“Well go on then,” Narcissa said, urging him toward the sitting room.
Harry nodded and smiled a little at her before leaving her there in the entryway, talking animatedly with a portrait of some relative or other. At least, he mused, the portrait talked back.
When he entered the sitting room, he did not immediately see Draco and for a second, he almost panicked. Then his eyes fell on the tall wingback chair in front of the fire and he took a deep breath.
“Draco?” he said, voice barely above a raspy whisper.
“Go away,” Draco growled from the chair. “I may be losing my mind, but I will not hear voices.”
Harry almost laughed. Almost.
He crossed the room to stand behind the chair, then slowly moved to stand in front of it, in front of him. “Draco, I-”
Draco glanced up and his silver eyes flashed. “Ah…skip the voices then. Go right in to seeing things. That’s so much better.”
“Draco, will you shut up?” Harry snapped.
Draco glared at him. “You’re my hallucination. I don’t think you’re allowed to take that tone with me.”
“I’m not a hallucination, you prat.”
Draco’s eyes bored into him. “Harry?”
“Yes.”
“What the devil are you doing here?”
“I…I couldn’t stay away,” Harry said honestly.
Draco shifted his gaze over Harry’s shoulder. “Why aren’t you out there fighting the good fight, Potter?” he asked. “Killing Death Eaters, following Dumbledore…your destiny?”
Harry smiled faintly at the way Draco said ‘destiny’ like it was a dirty word. He pushed the hood of his cloak back and knelt at Draco’s feet, between his knees.
Draco tensed and looked back at him again. “What-?”
Harry shook his head and pressed a finger to his mouth to silence him. “It wasn’t me. They were wrong all along. It was never me.”
Draco took a deep breath and let it out. He started to speak again, but Harry hushed him.
“I have something to say,” he murmured. “I want you to listen.”
Harry rested his head on Draco’s thigh and looked up at him with a gentle smile playing around his lips. “Catnip,” he said softly.
//finis//
Go back to the beginning>>
*does happy dance*
...
*naked* ;D
Title: Cactus Angels
Pairing: H/D
Rating: Strong NC-17
Warnings: slash, S&M, knife-play, graphic sex; anal and oral. I'm sure I am forgetting a few things. Anyway, you get the idea. If this isn't your cup of tea, move on./Not beta'd.
Notes: It's been a while, so if you've read this and don't remember some things, you might not really get the ending of this. If you're unsure, you might want to go back and skim through a few things. Just saying.
“Master Draco, sir, you must eats.”
Draco snarled at the house elf and blindly picked up the nearest object that came to hand and hurled it at the insufferable creature. “Get out!”
Popkin threw up her hand and the priceless Ming vase halted in the air and floated safely down to her hand. “Master Draco,” she said, carefully placing the vase on a table out of his way, “you is not well.”
Draco turned and glared at her. “Do you think I need some mangy little carpet mite to tell me that?”
“Master Draco, your mother…”
“Is bat-shit insane,” Draco said cheerfully. “I know. It’s made her a much nicer person, over all, don’t you think?”
The house elf blinked at him rapidly and fidgeted. She really didn’t know how to answer that kind of question. House elves in the Malfoy household were not accustomed to being asked for their opinions…and this particular question sounded like something that could have her spending the rest of the evening ironing her fingertips.
“Master Draco, your mother worries.”
“My mother worries,” Draco mimicked. “Of course she does. She worries constantly that the dining room table and the sitting room drapes are conspiring together to bring about her untimely demise. It makes for very awkward dinner conversations, or have you somehow failed to notice?”
“Master Draco-”
Draco hissed at the elf and turned his back on it. “Go away,” he whispered fiercely. He lifted a hand and swiped it through his hair, then tilted his head back and stood there staring up at the ceiling. “Please, please…go take care of my mother. Rescue her from the furniture, do…whatever it is you do. Just please…go away.”
Popkin sighed. “Yes, Master Draco,” she said, and hurried away to find Narcissa.
“Yes, Master Draco,” Draco muttered. He gave a short bark of laughter and flopped down into the nearest chair.
Not for the first time, he wondered if perhaps he should not have gone to war with the Dark Lord. It had been expected-everyone had expected it, even Harry.
Harry.
Harry was the reason why he had not gone. He couldn’t bear the thought of looking over the end of his wand and meeting those innocent green eyes. He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t make that choice, to kill or die, and so he did nothing. He stayed home and kept his mad mother company. He had tea with her in the afternoon and listened to her go on about how his father should be home shortly, he was late for tea today, that wasn’t like him.
And when news of the war reached him, when the growing list of the dead could not be ignored…he remembered Harry’s eyes, Harry’s skin, Harry’s voice, those soft baby kitten sounds that he made when Draco touched him just so or fucked him just right. He remembered that and he stayed away.
Let them have their war, the light and the dark. It was nothing to him. He had always held more kinship with shades of grey.
****************
Narcissa did not question her sanity. She was past that point. She knew she was crazy, had known it for quite some time now. It started happening about a month after Lucius was thrown in Azkaban. She’d fought it at first, but when the desktop lamp started whispering to her and the second floor banister started telling her stories, she’d given it up. She’d never been one of those women who went in much for denial.
Besides, the banister really was a pretty good conversationalist.
One of the benefits of being insane, she had discovered, was that no one expected you to behave sanely. Which meant that no one tried to tell her to stop talking to the bookshelves, and this was good, because she really liked talking to the bookshelves. She had learned so many fascinating things that way.
“Mistress ‘Cissa.”
Narcissa turned her head and looked around for the voice. It was a tiny voice. Like the voice of a little bird…or one of her fancy little china teacups. Teacups were not good conversationalists. Bit annoying, really.
“Mistress ‘Cissa,” the voice said urgently again.
“Hmmm?” There was a tug on her sleeve and Narcissa looked down. Two protuberant brown eyes blinked up at her. “Oh, it’s only you.”
“Yes, Mistress,” Popkin said. “Master Draco is…”
“Disturbed,” Narcissa said cheerfully. “Yes, I know. Isn’t it dreadful?”
“He-”
“He’s grieving, you know,” Narcissa said, plucking a slim volume from the shelf in front of her and smiling faintly at the soft whisper that accompanied its removal. “Oh, come now, it’s not so bad,” she soothed. “Voltaire…Well that doesn’t mean it’s fit for burning.”
Popkin cocked her head to one side and tried to hear whatever it was her lady was obviously hearing. “Mistress-”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Narcissa said dismissively. “He grieves for that boy. Don’t we all…”
“Mis-”
“Idiot child. Should have known better than to get involved in that kind of thing with that one.”
“Mistress-”
“Pain,” Narcissa muttered. She put Voltaire back on the shelf, to the consternation of the bookshelf, who really was not a fan. “The boy likes it. Who would have thought? Of course, one gets used to such things…learns to crave them…but that one-he was born to it. Or so Draco believes. And he may be right. He is in more position to know than I, certainly.”
The house elf had no idea what or who her lady was going on about.
There was a sudden loud banging at the front door.
Narcissa looked up as the house elf started to go open it. “No, no, let me. You go…bash yourself with the teapot or something.”
Popkin gave her mistress a grateful look and left to do just that, thinking to herself that humans were very odd creatures.
Narcissa apologized to the doorknob before she opened the door to see who it was.
A dark hooded figure stood on the stoop in the rain.
Narcissa smiled. “Oh, it’s you. Well come in then, don’t just stand there on the mat, it makes him irritable.”
“Thank you,” Harry said. He studied Narcissa for a moment. He could see her madness. Hell, he could almost smell it on her. He tried to feel something about that; sympathy, pity, empathy-anything at all. He couldn’t. He saw Draco in her features, in the way she held her head, slightly tilted to one side, in the impossibly pale fall of her hair, and he couldn’t think or feel anything else.
Narcissa closed the door and turned to him with an expectant look. “Well?”
“I…” Harry faltered. “I…I have to see him. Please. I…”
“Yes, of course,” Narcissa said, speaking gently, as one would to an injured animal. “You must see him.”
Harry sighed and lifted a trembling hand to his face. “Thank you.”
“Well go on then,” Narcissa said, urging him toward the sitting room.
Harry nodded and smiled a little at her before leaving her there in the entryway, talking animatedly with a portrait of some relative or other. At least, he mused, the portrait talked back.
When he entered the sitting room, he did not immediately see Draco and for a second, he almost panicked. Then his eyes fell on the tall wingback chair in front of the fire and he took a deep breath.
“Draco?” he said, voice barely above a raspy whisper.
“Go away,” Draco growled from the chair. “I may be losing my mind, but I will not hear voices.”
Harry almost laughed. Almost.
He crossed the room to stand behind the chair, then slowly moved to stand in front of it, in front of him. “Draco, I-”
Draco glanced up and his silver eyes flashed. “Ah…skip the voices then. Go right in to seeing things. That’s so much better.”
“Draco, will you shut up?” Harry snapped.
Draco glared at him. “You’re my hallucination. I don’t think you’re allowed to take that tone with me.”
“I’m not a hallucination, you prat.”
Draco’s eyes bored into him. “Harry?”
“Yes.”
“What the devil are you doing here?”
“I…I couldn’t stay away,” Harry said honestly.
Draco shifted his gaze over Harry’s shoulder. “Why aren’t you out there fighting the good fight, Potter?” he asked. “Killing Death Eaters, following Dumbledore…your destiny?”
Harry smiled faintly at the way Draco said ‘destiny’ like it was a dirty word. He pushed the hood of his cloak back and knelt at Draco’s feet, between his knees.
Draco tensed and looked back at him again. “What-?”
Harry shook his head and pressed a finger to his mouth to silence him. “It wasn’t me. They were wrong all along. It was never me.”
Draco took a deep breath and let it out. He started to speak again, but Harry hushed him.
“I have something to say,” he murmured. “I want you to listen.”
Harry rested his head on Draco’s thigh and looked up at him with a gentle smile playing around his lips. “Catnip,” he said softly.
//finis//
Go back to the beginning>>