(no subject)
Just - nnngh. I'm tired.
I'm still not entirely sure this fic is completed, but my brain has judiciously refused the request for more plot-bunnies ... *resists the urge to kick!start brain*
Starting fics are so much easier than completing them.
Forked No Lightning
Four ways Harry Potter never met Draco Malfoy
Though wise men at their end know dark is right
Because their words have forked no lighning they
Do not go gentle into that good night
~Dylan Thomas
4
31 January 1982 (38 years, 8 months after Voldemort’s death-by-Basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets)
Baby Harry has developed an unfortunate predilection for rolling around in the mud.
Picking through the garden, Lily scoops up a rumpled, squealing Harry on her trek back to their flowery bungalow. Her muslin skirt turns translucent against her legs in the afternoon sunlight, and fresh pansies bob jauntily in her hat.
Why, why does Harry have to get into the begonias the very day the Malfoys are visiting?
Motherhood, Lily surmises, looking at the mud-stained, miniature James in her arms, is the wistful surrender of all plans into the tiny sticky hands of Fate.
Setting her son on the floor for him to toddle uncertainly toward his high-chair, Lily watches as he proceeds to leave little mudprints on the kitchen cabinets, the table leg… and the floor where his chubby legs accidentally tangle, causing him to land with an oomph and a fat ‘plop’.
Lily sighs and mutters a hasty Scourgify. Flicking a begonia leaf from her dress, she drops a fond, absent-minded kiss on the diminutive black tornado that passes off as Harry’s hair.
Harry looks up at her with wide green eyes, grinning gummily. His eyes crinkle above chubby chipmunk cheeks.
Lily feels it is unfair that such a messy specimen of humanity should have such a tight hold upon her heart.
A gentle Ablutere later, Harry is mud-free and dressed dashingly in his baby Wizarding robes, which James has reluctantly conceded makes him look like a fat, toothless version of Slughorn. Lily, thinking of the wardrobes full of Baby Gap upstairs, smugly recalls winning that argument.
She presses her nose briefly against Harry’s, making him squeal with delight, before hearing the doorbell ding and hurrying out into the hall.
::
Baby Draco is impeccably dressed.
In ruffles.
James looks at the little blond twerp, at the decorative green ruff that circles his pudgy neck, and tries not to laugh.
Well, he supposes the matching father-and-son hair ribbons are rather cute.
‘Hey-ho, Lucius, Narcissa,’ he gives Sirius’ cousin a cheery nod, ‘come in, then.’
::
Baby Harry and Draco are left to their own devices in the play-room while the grown-ups take tea.
Harry immediate gets up and bumbles towards his soft-toy snitch, which, rather to Remus’ horror, glows in the dark and can be charmed to fart the chorus of Go Go Gryffindor.
Draco, looking a bit flushed and rosy-cheeked, his hair fluffing like a dandelion above his head, looks at Harry uncertainly.
Hi, he says in international telepathic baby-speak. It comes out rather like a gurgling, ‘Habee-mmm?’
Harry looks at the blonde kid in surprise. He speaks! Harry hasn’t had anyone speak to him properly before. Mum and Da and Pa-foot and Moony tend to coo gibberish at him - especially Pa-foot.
Hi!!! He gurgles excitedly. As he gives an enthusiastic wave, the soft snitch slips from his hand, zipping through the air and hitting Draco full on the nose.
Ow! Draco goes down like a chubby sack of potatoes.
Harry can’t help it. He giggles. The blonde kid’s legs are in the air, and his ruffs are crooked. He looks funny!
Draco starts to tear. You hit me! he wails, and bites his lip into a puffy little pout. His grey eyes, too wide for his little face, shimmer alarmingly.
Harry is immediately contrite, and crawls towards his new friend. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. Honest.
The tip of Draco’s nose is turning red, and beginning to run.
Harry thinks he looks rather pathetic, and feels a surge of affection for him, this funny-looking pale kid.
Here - he offers up his snitch. This is cool! It makes sounds when you sit on it. Pa-foot showed me.
Draco narrows his eyes, but perks up. Really? I don’t believe you.
Harry jumps up, and immediately tries to sit on the thing. After three unsuccessful tries, he manages a firm perch.
Together, they solemnly listen to a series of musical farts, which sound a bit like and when Slytherin fall on their arse, and vehemently start to cuss… you know it’s time to roar, Go-go Gryffindor!
Draco lifts his head haughtily, and lets out a wet-sounding giggle. ‘Tis kind of funny-sounding.
Harry is overjoyed. He laughed! He immediately starts pulling out his entire soft-toy Quidditch set, to Draco’s grudging fascination. None of his toys at the Manor are soft and squishy.
Later, when Draco feels his eyelids drooping, he instinctively sucks his thumb into his mouth, and finds out that Harry’s tummy, that little patch right around his bellybutton, is rather soft and squishy too.
3
31 July 1991 (Harry’s eleventh birthday, 1 month before he finally goes to Hogwarts; 9 years, 9 months after the death of Dumbledore and Lucius Malfoy)
Harry is a quiet boy, a good boy.
Holding tightly to Remus’ hand (although he’s pretending he isn’t) he watches with wide eyes as they make their way into Diagon Alley.
Harry, of course, knows all about Diagon Alley - Remus has taught him everything he needs to know about the Wizarding world - but this is his first time seeing magic, and he is enthralled.
Harry knows the life he will lead will not be easy. Hogwarts is merely the first step into a shadowy future, where Voldemort has already begun marshalling his troops, and where The Boy Who Lived after the battle of Godric’s Hollow comes secondary to the deaths of Dumbledore, of Shacklebolt, of Sirius Black, and of his parents.
Harry knows that every few months or so, Remus will retreat into his room, and the house will turn still and quiet for a few hours.
After watching telly for a while and doing his magical theory homework, Harry will slip into the kitchen and steal a bar of specially imported Belgian dark chocolate, cunningly hidden behind the pickled gherkins.
He will sneak into Remus’ room, and climb nimbly over the Remus-shaped huddle and the photograph of Padfoot in the covers. After ascertaining that Remus is awake - he always is - he will attach himself to Remus’ warm and comfy back, and they will share chocolate quietly in the dark.
At Diagon Alley, having paid a trip to Gringott’s, and then to Flourish and Bott’s - where Harry and Remus both look googly-eyed at all the new and wonderful books - Remus takes Harry to Ollivander’s, and then to Madam Malkin’s to get fitted for Hogwarts robes.
After that, Remus winks at Harry, and gives him a nudge towards the pet shop, where Harry is told that he can choose any animal he likes, within reason.
The animals are a bit ruffled by Remus - he’s a werewolf, you see - so he politely excuses himself to look for some Defence supplies for his new Professorial role, after reassuring Harry he won’t be longer than fifteen minutes.
Harry, determinedly brave, waves at Remus’ departing brown head, and then has a good look around the shop.
There are slimy toads and Kneazles and an over-excited Krup and a few snakes but Harry only has eyes for one thing - or, rather, her.
A beautiful, fluffy white owl, with a few dark speckles on her snowy wings.
Sensing Harry’s awestruck gaze, she turns her furry head slowly, ruffles her feathers, and coos.
As Harry makes his way toward the owl-perch, he finds himself suddenly obstructed by something fair, rather short, and bony.
The thing turns out to be a boy, rather small for his age, with a cherubic face and hair too blonde to be believed.
Harry, tangling his feet up in surprise, goes down with an inelegant oof, taking the boy with him.
A rather high-pitched aristocratic voice assaults his ears.
‘Ouch! Watch where you’re going! You hurt my ankle! My mother will hear about this!’
Harry looks at this unexpectedly shrill and noisy person in bemusement.
‘Firstly,’ Harry says, standing up and brushing his trousers, ‘you bumped into me. Secondly, you can’t possibly have hurt your ankle - we didn’t fall hard enough. And thirdly, I was just making my way over to that owl, and I would appreciate if we could navigate this shop like responsible adults.’
Harry holds out his hand to help the other boy up. The boy’s eyes bug in astonishment.
He knocks Harry’s hand away.
‘We’re hardly adults, you delusional berk! And - I was heading for that owl, too! That owl is mine!’
Harry’s temper flares. Really, had this boy no manners?
‘She’s clearly still up for sale! And I’m sure I saw her first!’
The boy gets up in a swift, graceful motion, and thrusts his chin against Harry’s face.
‘Well, I’m a Black, and I always get what I want. So, do stand aside.’
Harry grits his teeth. The git was unbelievable. ‘We’ll handle this in a calm and sane manner. Let’s see who she likes better.’
With that, Harry whistles lowly, remembering how Remus treats his little post-owl, and softly clicks his teeth.
The white owl perks up, and looks consideringly at Harry. After a moment, she shakes her downy head, tucks in her feet, and flies.
Straight towards Harry, landing softly on his shoulder.
Harry glows with pride.
‘There.’ He pats her fluffy head tenderly. ‘See?’
The boy is looking quietly aghast, and he hasn’t noticed that his colourful turtleneck jumper is askew.
‘You cheated. I didn’t get a chance to call her first. I was going to name her Hedwig!’
Harry feels a guilty flush of shame. He hadn’t thought about that.
‘All right. Why don’t you try calling her now? If she goes, she’s yours.’
Malfoy narrows his startlingly grey eyes, purses his lips, and whistles. Softly, cajolingly.
Hedwig looks at him askance, shakes her feathers out, and then bends to nip gently at Harry’s ear.
There is a sudden flash of hurt in the boy’s eyes - quickly hidden - before he stops whistling.
He turns towards Harry.
‘Fine.’ His tone is vicious. ‘You win. For now.’
In an abrupt movement, he pushes past Harry, nearly dislodging Hedwig, before running out of the shop.
Harry looks after him with a sinking heart. He has a feeling this isn’t the last he is going to see of Black.
2
2 November 1994 (Three days after Durmstrang and Beauxbatons arrive for the Triwizard Tournament)
Harry ducks his head just as they come into view. Flushing, he stumbles into a hidden alcove, set behind a pillar, and presses himself against cool stone.
The Durmstrang boys come around the corner, murmuring in a flow of guttural, harsh consonants. Their heavy boots click rhythmically against the flagstones as they pass Harry, unseen.
Harry’s brow furrows, confused, before he finally sees him.
Lagging behind the others, the boy glides past the alcove quietly. There’s something about the way he moves - he has none of the severe rigidity of Durmstrang boys, or the cheery awkwardness of Hogwarts students. He moves almost like a student of Beauxbatons - with conscious grace - the rich crimson of his velvet cloak rippling behind him as he walks.
The crimson sets off the unnatural fairness of his hair, and raises a delicate rose tinge in the pallor of his cheeks. His eyes are heavy-lidded, surveying the stones in front of him, and Harry has never seen him speak to anyone else in the Durmstrang contingent.
The boy rounds the corner, a few moments after the rest of his peers, and Harry gazes after him wonderingly.
He has never felt this way before - as if butterflies have lodged themselves in his chest, as if he is a starry-eyed girl - and is cautiously determined to find out why.
::
The boy is not at dinner.
Harry pushes his shepherd’s pie around his plate, trying not to fret. Where has he gone? He sneaks another - sneaky - look at where the Durmstrang boys are sitting.
Hermione clears her throat.
‘Looking for someone, Harry?’
Harry, in the middle of forking treacle-encrusted mashed potato into his mouth, gawps at her intelligently.
She arrests his hand in mid-motion, and leans forward. In a surreptitious whisper that carries up and down the Gryffindor table, she murmurs, ‘It seems like a good night for flying.’
Ron looks at her as if she has gone mad. ‘Since when have you been interested in Quidditch?’
Harry ducks his head, wary of the familiar, warm glint in Hermione’s eyes, and the odd blush that seems determined to brighten the hollows of his cheeks.
::
Before dinner is over, Harry finds himself on the Quidditch pitch, scouring the skies.
There is a flash of silver, arching backwards across the twilight, and an echoing, distended yell of joy.
Against the setting sun, the boy flies as if there were no restrictions, as if there were no pull linking him back to the earth, to turpitude and sanity.
Unlike Harry, unlike Krum, racing pell-mell against the forces of gravity, he flies as if he was born to crest the wind.
Harry finds himself leaning backward, until the earth feels hard and cool against his back, until he is eye-level with the stars.
He watches the boy until the moon peeks out, and hovers, heavy and waiting, against the darkening sky.
::
Harry supposed it would always come down to this.
An empty hallway, and two apprehensive boys, flirting with the dues of manhood.
The boy - Harry can’t believe he still doesn’t know his name, and can’t bring himself to ask Hermione - surveys him with narrow eyes.
His eyes are grey, Harry realises. Grey like smoke and starlight. And his voice, when he finally speaks, is nonchalant, tripping with a refined and faultless English accent.
‘You’ve been watching me.’
Harry, taken aback by this show of verbosity, stutters. ‘Oh! Well, I - you see -’
The boy, who has been toying with the fur lining of his cloak, suddenly looks up, and smiles. All Harry can think of, dizzily, is oh god, he has dimples.
With a haughty toss of his fair head, the boy seems to come to a decision, and comes forward. Barely a foot away from Harry, he holds out his hand.
‘Draco Malfoy,’ he jerks his head in an awkward, Durmstrang-ish little bow. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
Harry takes his hand, feeling slender bones underneath smooth tendon, and helplessly blushes, feeling colour suffuse his face, warming the cold steel of his glasses. ‘Harry Potter. Just - er - call me Harry?’
Draco eyes Harry consideringly, his grey eyes amused beneath ridiculously thick lashes, and - after a breathless moment - curves his lips into a little smirk.
‘So, Potter,’ he comes a little nearer, and Harry’s brain sputters to a thrilled little stop, ‘it might just be my imagination, but what do you find so fascinating about my arse?’
1
1 April 1998 (16 years, 5 months, 1 day after the death of the Potters)
Smoke hangs still on the horizon, limning the sky like a pale eyelid. The fields are wet with morning dew, and trees are poking their branches one by one through the darkness, into dawn.
In the fields, flowers - stargazer lily and white myrtle - are pushing through the ground. It is April, the cruellest month, and death whets the air.
It is cold. Harry cannot feel his hands.
A spell hits a flock of birds in the trees, and they alight like a shower of black stars, taking to the sky. Feeling the cool earth turning to dry powder as he moves, Harry lies on his back, and sees the flash of their yellow feet as they disappear, one by one into the lightening clouds. He knows that, in a small corner of this gaping field, their battle is finally ending.
He knows, he knows, that he has won.
A shudder of spells, bursting one upon the other like coruscating fireworks, parts the mist as the last Death Eaters are taken down. Between slender stalks of grass, in the corner of his eye, Harry sees the white-blonde hair of Lucius Malfoy whipping in a beautiful arc as he falls.
Harry’s wand lies in pieces under him, and he is splayed on the ground where he was thrown after Voldemort’s death. He cannot move his leg after the last shard of Voldemort’s soul smashed him into a yew tree as it obliterated.
Broken, bleeding, smelling the earthiness of Highland peat and watching the first rays stir against the depths of the forest, Harry feels the full joy of being seventeen, and alive.
He tells himself not to cry, like a ninny, and that Ron will come for him soon.
Hermione will patch him up, and Remus will offer him chocolate.
He will be all right.
Hearing shouts in the distance, Harry tries again to get up, and gasps when pain splinters through his leg, like lightning. His arm is twisted behind him, still gripping the pieces of his wand, and he feels a cry bubbling up from within him, that it hurts, everything hurts.
Madam Pomfrey will set his bones, and cluck over him.
The birds are starting to sing.
The night is ending.
Feeling long stems of grass tickle his nose, Harry turns his head in the other direction, just in time to catch a sudden movement in the underbrush. A flattening of leaves, the quiet scrape of bark against the heel of a boot.
In an instant, he stills.
The watery sunlight, spearing through the trees, catches on an invisible figure, half-hidden behind a low-hanging branch, and casts a shadow, stretching across the grass, that should not have been there.
Harry feels his heart give a sudden jerk, pumping fresh blood into his chest.
His mind races, and he flicks his eyes in vain for something, anything he can use.
He cannot stand. He cannot move his hand.
The shadow, sensing the change come over him, pauses, before gliding inexorably forwards. There is a moment of silence, in which all Harry hear is the carefree twittering of birds, and the roar of his furious heartbeat.
Harry holds his breath.
Three yards away, there is a sudden parting of the air, a shimmering ripple, and then the cloak falls, and Harry sees him.
A boy, almost a man - pale, like himself.
A shock of silver hair, falling like silk into grey eyes.
An austere face, which despite its unforgiving angles looks as though its lines could soften, and even let forth a childish peal of laughter, if coaxed, or charmed.
A wand, held between slender fingers, raised - tremblingly, right at Harry’s forehead.
He looks like an angel, ephemeral, as if he was composed entirely of the morning mist, or of morning stars, shadowed and back-lit.
In that unending moment, between life and death, before the incantation, Harry looks breathlessly into grey eyes, burning and unfathomable - like starlight - and feels as if he has known him forever.
I'm still not entirely sure this fic is completed, but my brain has judiciously refused the request for more plot-bunnies ... *resists the urge to kick!start brain*
Starting fics are so much easier than completing them.
Forked No Lightning
Four ways Harry Potter never met Draco Malfoy
Though wise men at their end know dark is right
Because their words have forked no lighning they
Do not go gentle into that good night
~Dylan Thomas
4
31 January 1982 (38 years, 8 months after Voldemort’s death-by-Basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets)
Baby Harry has developed an unfortunate predilection for rolling around in the mud.
Picking through the garden, Lily scoops up a rumpled, squealing Harry on her trek back to their flowery bungalow. Her muslin skirt turns translucent against her legs in the afternoon sunlight, and fresh pansies bob jauntily in her hat.
Why, why does Harry have to get into the begonias the very day the Malfoys are visiting?
Motherhood, Lily surmises, looking at the mud-stained, miniature James in her arms, is the wistful surrender of all plans into the tiny sticky hands of Fate.
Setting her son on the floor for him to toddle uncertainly toward his high-chair, Lily watches as he proceeds to leave little mudprints on the kitchen cabinets, the table leg… and the floor where his chubby legs accidentally tangle, causing him to land with an oomph and a fat ‘plop’.
Lily sighs and mutters a hasty Scourgify. Flicking a begonia leaf from her dress, she drops a fond, absent-minded kiss on the diminutive black tornado that passes off as Harry’s hair.
Harry looks up at her with wide green eyes, grinning gummily. His eyes crinkle above chubby chipmunk cheeks.
Lily feels it is unfair that such a messy specimen of humanity should have such a tight hold upon her heart.
A gentle Ablutere later, Harry is mud-free and dressed dashingly in his baby Wizarding robes, which James has reluctantly conceded makes him look like a fat, toothless version of Slughorn. Lily, thinking of the wardrobes full of Baby Gap upstairs, smugly recalls winning that argument.
She presses her nose briefly against Harry’s, making him squeal with delight, before hearing the doorbell ding and hurrying out into the hall.
::
Baby Draco is impeccably dressed.
In ruffles.
James looks at the little blond twerp, at the decorative green ruff that circles his pudgy neck, and tries not to laugh.
Well, he supposes the matching father-and-son hair ribbons are rather cute.
‘Hey-ho, Lucius, Narcissa,’ he gives Sirius’ cousin a cheery nod, ‘come in, then.’
::
Baby Harry and Draco are left to their own devices in the play-room while the grown-ups take tea.
Harry immediate gets up and bumbles towards his soft-toy snitch, which, rather to Remus’ horror, glows in the dark and can be charmed to fart the chorus of Go Go Gryffindor.
Draco, looking a bit flushed and rosy-cheeked, his hair fluffing like a dandelion above his head, looks at Harry uncertainly.
Hi, he says in international telepathic baby-speak. It comes out rather like a gurgling, ‘Habee-mmm?’
Harry looks at the blonde kid in surprise. He speaks! Harry hasn’t had anyone speak to him properly before. Mum and Da and Pa-foot and Moony tend to coo gibberish at him - especially Pa-foot.
Hi!!! He gurgles excitedly. As he gives an enthusiastic wave, the soft snitch slips from his hand, zipping through the air and hitting Draco full on the nose.
Ow! Draco goes down like a chubby sack of potatoes.
Harry can’t help it. He giggles. The blonde kid’s legs are in the air, and his ruffs are crooked. He looks funny!
Draco starts to tear. You hit me! he wails, and bites his lip into a puffy little pout. His grey eyes, too wide for his little face, shimmer alarmingly.
Harry is immediately contrite, and crawls towards his new friend. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. Honest.
The tip of Draco’s nose is turning red, and beginning to run.
Harry thinks he looks rather pathetic, and feels a surge of affection for him, this funny-looking pale kid.
Here - he offers up his snitch. This is cool! It makes sounds when you sit on it. Pa-foot showed me.
Draco narrows his eyes, but perks up. Really? I don’t believe you.
Harry jumps up, and immediately tries to sit on the thing. After three unsuccessful tries, he manages a firm perch.
Together, they solemnly listen to a series of musical farts, which sound a bit like and when Slytherin fall on their arse, and vehemently start to cuss… you know it’s time to roar, Go-go Gryffindor!
Draco lifts his head haughtily, and lets out a wet-sounding giggle. ‘Tis kind of funny-sounding.
Harry is overjoyed. He laughed! He immediately starts pulling out his entire soft-toy Quidditch set, to Draco’s grudging fascination. None of his toys at the Manor are soft and squishy.
Later, when Draco feels his eyelids drooping, he instinctively sucks his thumb into his mouth, and finds out that Harry’s tummy, that little patch right around his bellybutton, is rather soft and squishy too.
3
31 July 1991 (Harry’s eleventh birthday, 1 month before he finally goes to Hogwarts; 9 years, 9 months after the death of Dumbledore and Lucius Malfoy)
Harry is a quiet boy, a good boy.
Holding tightly to Remus’ hand (although he’s pretending he isn’t) he watches with wide eyes as they make their way into Diagon Alley.
Harry, of course, knows all about Diagon Alley - Remus has taught him everything he needs to know about the Wizarding world - but this is his first time seeing magic, and he is enthralled.
Harry knows the life he will lead will not be easy. Hogwarts is merely the first step into a shadowy future, where Voldemort has already begun marshalling his troops, and where The Boy Who Lived after the battle of Godric’s Hollow comes secondary to the deaths of Dumbledore, of Shacklebolt, of Sirius Black, and of his parents.
Harry knows that every few months or so, Remus will retreat into his room, and the house will turn still and quiet for a few hours.
After watching telly for a while and doing his magical theory homework, Harry will slip into the kitchen and steal a bar of specially imported Belgian dark chocolate, cunningly hidden behind the pickled gherkins.
He will sneak into Remus’ room, and climb nimbly over the Remus-shaped huddle and the photograph of Padfoot in the covers. After ascertaining that Remus is awake - he always is - he will attach himself to Remus’ warm and comfy back, and they will share chocolate quietly in the dark.
At Diagon Alley, having paid a trip to Gringott’s, and then to Flourish and Bott’s - where Harry and Remus both look googly-eyed at all the new and wonderful books - Remus takes Harry to Ollivander’s, and then to Madam Malkin’s to get fitted for Hogwarts robes.
After that, Remus winks at Harry, and gives him a nudge towards the pet shop, where Harry is told that he can choose any animal he likes, within reason.
The animals are a bit ruffled by Remus - he’s a werewolf, you see - so he politely excuses himself to look for some Defence supplies for his new Professorial role, after reassuring Harry he won’t be longer than fifteen minutes.
Harry, determinedly brave, waves at Remus’ departing brown head, and then has a good look around the shop.
There are slimy toads and Kneazles and an over-excited Krup and a few snakes but Harry only has eyes for one thing - or, rather, her.
A beautiful, fluffy white owl, with a few dark speckles on her snowy wings.
Sensing Harry’s awestruck gaze, she turns her furry head slowly, ruffles her feathers, and coos.
As Harry makes his way toward the owl-perch, he finds himself suddenly obstructed by something fair, rather short, and bony.
The thing turns out to be a boy, rather small for his age, with a cherubic face and hair too blonde to be believed.
Harry, tangling his feet up in surprise, goes down with an inelegant oof, taking the boy with him.
A rather high-pitched aristocratic voice assaults his ears.
‘Ouch! Watch where you’re going! You hurt my ankle! My mother will hear about this!’
Harry looks at this unexpectedly shrill and noisy person in bemusement.
‘Firstly,’ Harry says, standing up and brushing his trousers, ‘you bumped into me. Secondly, you can’t possibly have hurt your ankle - we didn’t fall hard enough. And thirdly, I was just making my way over to that owl, and I would appreciate if we could navigate this shop like responsible adults.’
Harry holds out his hand to help the other boy up. The boy’s eyes bug in astonishment.
He knocks Harry’s hand away.
‘We’re hardly adults, you delusional berk! And - I was heading for that owl, too! That owl is mine!’
Harry’s temper flares. Really, had this boy no manners?
‘She’s clearly still up for sale! And I’m sure I saw her first!’
The boy gets up in a swift, graceful motion, and thrusts his chin against Harry’s face.
‘Well, I’m a Black, and I always get what I want. So, do stand aside.’
Harry grits his teeth. The git was unbelievable. ‘We’ll handle this in a calm and sane manner. Let’s see who she likes better.’
With that, Harry whistles lowly, remembering how Remus treats his little post-owl, and softly clicks his teeth.
The white owl perks up, and looks consideringly at Harry. After a moment, she shakes her downy head, tucks in her feet, and flies.
Straight towards Harry, landing softly on his shoulder.
Harry glows with pride.
‘There.’ He pats her fluffy head tenderly. ‘See?’
The boy is looking quietly aghast, and he hasn’t noticed that his colourful turtleneck jumper is askew.
‘You cheated. I didn’t get a chance to call her first. I was going to name her Hedwig!’
Harry feels a guilty flush of shame. He hadn’t thought about that.
‘All right. Why don’t you try calling her now? If she goes, she’s yours.’
Malfoy narrows his startlingly grey eyes, purses his lips, and whistles. Softly, cajolingly.
Hedwig looks at him askance, shakes her feathers out, and then bends to nip gently at Harry’s ear.
There is a sudden flash of hurt in the boy’s eyes - quickly hidden - before he stops whistling.
He turns towards Harry.
‘Fine.’ His tone is vicious. ‘You win. For now.’
In an abrupt movement, he pushes past Harry, nearly dislodging Hedwig, before running out of the shop.
Harry looks after him with a sinking heart. He has a feeling this isn’t the last he is going to see of Black.
2
2 November 1994 (Three days after Durmstrang and Beauxbatons arrive for the Triwizard Tournament)
Harry ducks his head just as they come into view. Flushing, he stumbles into a hidden alcove, set behind a pillar, and presses himself against cool stone.
The Durmstrang boys come around the corner, murmuring in a flow of guttural, harsh consonants. Their heavy boots click rhythmically against the flagstones as they pass Harry, unseen.
Harry’s brow furrows, confused, before he finally sees him.
Lagging behind the others, the boy glides past the alcove quietly. There’s something about the way he moves - he has none of the severe rigidity of Durmstrang boys, or the cheery awkwardness of Hogwarts students. He moves almost like a student of Beauxbatons - with conscious grace - the rich crimson of his velvet cloak rippling behind him as he walks.
The crimson sets off the unnatural fairness of his hair, and raises a delicate rose tinge in the pallor of his cheeks. His eyes are heavy-lidded, surveying the stones in front of him, and Harry has never seen him speak to anyone else in the Durmstrang contingent.
The boy rounds the corner, a few moments after the rest of his peers, and Harry gazes after him wonderingly.
He has never felt this way before - as if butterflies have lodged themselves in his chest, as if he is a starry-eyed girl - and is cautiously determined to find out why.
::
The boy is not at dinner.
Harry pushes his shepherd’s pie around his plate, trying not to fret. Where has he gone? He sneaks another - sneaky - look at where the Durmstrang boys are sitting.
Hermione clears her throat.
‘Looking for someone, Harry?’
Harry, in the middle of forking treacle-encrusted mashed potato into his mouth, gawps at her intelligently.
She arrests his hand in mid-motion, and leans forward. In a surreptitious whisper that carries up and down the Gryffindor table, she murmurs, ‘It seems like a good night for flying.’
Ron looks at her as if she has gone mad. ‘Since when have you been interested in Quidditch?’
Harry ducks his head, wary of the familiar, warm glint in Hermione’s eyes, and the odd blush that seems determined to brighten the hollows of his cheeks.
::
Before dinner is over, Harry finds himself on the Quidditch pitch, scouring the skies.
There is a flash of silver, arching backwards across the twilight, and an echoing, distended yell of joy.
Against the setting sun, the boy flies as if there were no restrictions, as if there were no pull linking him back to the earth, to turpitude and sanity.
Unlike Harry, unlike Krum, racing pell-mell against the forces of gravity, he flies as if he was born to crest the wind.
Harry finds himself leaning backward, until the earth feels hard and cool against his back, until he is eye-level with the stars.
He watches the boy until the moon peeks out, and hovers, heavy and waiting, against the darkening sky.
::
Harry supposed it would always come down to this.
An empty hallway, and two apprehensive boys, flirting with the dues of manhood.
The boy - Harry can’t believe he still doesn’t know his name, and can’t bring himself to ask Hermione - surveys him with narrow eyes.
His eyes are grey, Harry realises. Grey like smoke and starlight. And his voice, when he finally speaks, is nonchalant, tripping with a refined and faultless English accent.
‘You’ve been watching me.’
Harry, taken aback by this show of verbosity, stutters. ‘Oh! Well, I - you see -’
The boy, who has been toying with the fur lining of his cloak, suddenly looks up, and smiles. All Harry can think of, dizzily, is oh god, he has dimples.
With a haughty toss of his fair head, the boy seems to come to a decision, and comes forward. Barely a foot away from Harry, he holds out his hand.
‘Draco Malfoy,’ he jerks his head in an awkward, Durmstrang-ish little bow. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
Harry takes his hand, feeling slender bones underneath smooth tendon, and helplessly blushes, feeling colour suffuse his face, warming the cold steel of his glasses. ‘Harry Potter. Just - er - call me Harry?’
Draco eyes Harry consideringly, his grey eyes amused beneath ridiculously thick lashes, and - after a breathless moment - curves his lips into a little smirk.
‘So, Potter,’ he comes a little nearer, and Harry’s brain sputters to a thrilled little stop, ‘it might just be my imagination, but what do you find so fascinating about my arse?’
1
1 April 1998 (16 years, 5 months, 1 day after the death of the Potters)
Smoke hangs still on the horizon, limning the sky like a pale eyelid. The fields are wet with morning dew, and trees are poking their branches one by one through the darkness, into dawn.
In the fields, flowers - stargazer lily and white myrtle - are pushing through the ground. It is April, the cruellest month, and death whets the air.
It is cold. Harry cannot feel his hands.
A spell hits a flock of birds in the trees, and they alight like a shower of black stars, taking to the sky. Feeling the cool earth turning to dry powder as he moves, Harry lies on his back, and sees the flash of their yellow feet as they disappear, one by one into the lightening clouds. He knows that, in a small corner of this gaping field, their battle is finally ending.
He knows, he knows, that he has won.
A shudder of spells, bursting one upon the other like coruscating fireworks, parts the mist as the last Death Eaters are taken down. Between slender stalks of grass, in the corner of his eye, Harry sees the white-blonde hair of Lucius Malfoy whipping in a beautiful arc as he falls.
Harry’s wand lies in pieces under him, and he is splayed on the ground where he was thrown after Voldemort’s death. He cannot move his leg after the last shard of Voldemort’s soul smashed him into a yew tree as it obliterated.
Broken, bleeding, smelling the earthiness of Highland peat and watching the first rays stir against the depths of the forest, Harry feels the full joy of being seventeen, and alive.
He tells himself not to cry, like a ninny, and that Ron will come for him soon.
Hermione will patch him up, and Remus will offer him chocolate.
He will be all right.
Hearing shouts in the distance, Harry tries again to get up, and gasps when pain splinters through his leg, like lightning. His arm is twisted behind him, still gripping the pieces of his wand, and he feels a cry bubbling up from within him, that it hurts, everything hurts.
Madam Pomfrey will set his bones, and cluck over him.
The birds are starting to sing.
The night is ending.
Feeling long stems of grass tickle his nose, Harry turns his head in the other direction, just in time to catch a sudden movement in the underbrush. A flattening of leaves, the quiet scrape of bark against the heel of a boot.
In an instant, he stills.
The watery sunlight, spearing through the trees, catches on an invisible figure, half-hidden behind a low-hanging branch, and casts a shadow, stretching across the grass, that should not have been there.
Harry feels his heart give a sudden jerk, pumping fresh blood into his chest.
His mind races, and he flicks his eyes in vain for something, anything he can use.
He cannot stand. He cannot move his hand.
The shadow, sensing the change come over him, pauses, before gliding inexorably forwards. There is a moment of silence, in which all Harry hear is the carefree twittering of birds, and the roar of his furious heartbeat.
Harry holds his breath.
Three yards away, there is a sudden parting of the air, a shimmering ripple, and then the cloak falls, and Harry sees him.
A boy, almost a man - pale, like himself.
A shock of silver hair, falling like silk into grey eyes.
An austere face, which despite its unforgiving angles looks as though its lines could soften, and even let forth a childish peal of laughter, if coaxed, or charmed.
A wand, held between slender fingers, raised - tremblingly, right at Harry’s forehead.
He looks like an angel, ephemeral, as if he was composed entirely of the morning mist, or of morning stars, shadowed and back-lit.
In that unending moment, between life and death, before the incantation, Harry looks breathlessly into grey eyes, burning and unfathomable - like starlight - and feels as if he has known him forever.