Harry Potter-Harry/Draco
Title: Light and Warm
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Harry, Draco, random Death Eaters
Word Count: 1,533
Rating: Pg-13, for language and angst
Summary: In hell past rivalries lose their meaning
Author's Notes: I did a bit of experimenting with style for this. And by that I mean I had lots of fun with the scene breaks. Thank you SO much to Natalia for the quick and wonderful beta. Any mistakes left are completely my own.
It's a year now, or something like it. Draco tries to keep track with marks on the wall, though it's hard to tell night from day with no windows, only lights turning on and off. But, give or take, it's almost a year, so it must be summer outside, somewhere, because it was summer when he was first thrown into this hell.
Better than being dead, he reminds himself. A year ago he had actually thought it was true. Now, he's not so sure. The monotony seems worse then death, but every time he starts to consider starving himself into the grave, he remembers why he's being kept alive. He's leverage to use against his mother. If he dies, Voldemort will have her by the throat forever, pretending that Draco is still alive somewhere. It is only by actually staying alive that he can hope to one day find freedom for himself, and for her. That's the thought that keeps him going.
It's nothing like hope, but it's sweeter than despair.
It's summer outside, and inside it's almost too cold to bear in his rags, with his fatless, shivering body. He tries to remember what a summer breeze is like, light and warm against his cheeks. He can't really recall the sensation, only the words he sometimes used to describe it.
That's how he knows things are really getting bad.
***
The summer keeps on, and each day he tries and fails to really remember something else: the sound of birds in the morning, the salt air from when he used to visit beaches. The roar of the crowd at Quidditch matches or the colors of the sunsets he would watch with his mother outside the manor.
He tries not to wonder if he'll ever experience any of it again.
***
Another monotonous day is broken up by the rough bustle of guards throwing a prisoner into the cell next to his. Draco is in the middle of trying to force himself to perform wandless magic (a daily exercise that seems to bear increasingly pathetic results as the days and months slip away). He keeps his eyes focused on the pebble he's trying (failing) to levitate. The other prisoner isn't protesting, so he must be knocked out. Nothing interesting there. Besides, Draco doesn't really care who it is: another failed Death Eater, surely. Either he'll have something interesting to say, or they won't. Draco'll find out later.
***
What he finds out later, when he bothers to look over, is that his new companion is Harry Potter; knocked out, blood crusting his hairline.
"This isn't fair," Draco tells no one. "Not fair." He wonders if they're trying to torture him, but of course they aren’t. If anything, it's the other way around. After all, Potter is obviously far more important than he is.
Story of his life. Even in hell fucking Harry Potter is there to show him up.
***
Potter lifts his head hours later, squinting at Draco, who just sits, watching him from the far wall of his small confine.
"Malfoy." Draco notices there's no venom in the way he says it. "I thought you were dead."
Draco bites back a sarcastic reply. He's thought of a better plan: Saint Potter the Savior is going to have the entire Wizarding World looking to get him free, no question. So, don't alienate him. Make friends (crazy and unpleasant as that sounds), and maybe when the rescue party comes, someone will spare the energy it takes to unlock his cage.
He's more than willing to sell a little dignity for freedom.
"Well, I would've thought The Dark Lord would kill you on sight, so I guess we were both wrong."
Potter tilts his head as though he can't believe that Draco isn't being hostile. Then the edges of his lips tug up the tinniest bit. It's the closest thing to a smile Draco's seen in over a year. He tries to curve his lips to match the expression.
"I guess we were," Potter agrees. "I guess that means things could be worse."
Draco doesn't tell him just wait until next summer, then see how you feel.
***
Potter doesn't talk much the next few days, just stares into space. He looks deep in concentration, and Draco wonders if he's trying to unlock his cell with his mind. Probably. It's what Draco did when he was first locked away. He used to think he was getting somewhere with it, too.
Oh, for the naivety of optimism. Those were the good days.
Potter will lose that hope too, and soon.
***
One day, Draco is tired of the silence. He crawls to the wall of bars separating him from Potter. Resting his forehead against the rusting divide, he asks, "So, when is the rescue party coming?"
Potter looks over with a frown. "What rescue party? Malfoy, there's nobody fucking left out there. This god damned war's killed everyone."
Draco doubts that, but he's not sure if that's just the denial talking.
***
"Tell me something about you," Potter says. Draco stops drawing stick figures in the dust.
"What?"
"Tell me a story or something." Potter's lying down, staring at the ceiling, so it's hard to tell what expression he's wearing. "I want to understand what the hell made you do the things you did."
"And by that you mean?"
Potter shrugs. "It means I know more than you think. Tell me a childhood memory."
Potter's voice is commanding, and that makes Draco agree. It doesn't feel like he has a choice. He tells Potter about one fateful Christmas when he broke one of his father's wine glasses, and wasn't allowed any cake. It had been chocolate, too, with almonds: his favorite.
Potter tells him about oversized sweaters and the empty soda cans that passed for presents when he was a kid, and they're even.
***
Each day they tell one story each. It makes the time pass, and soon Draco realizes that he's thinking of Potter as Harry.
***
"I think today's my Birthday," Harry says.
"Happy birthday."
It takes minutes for Draco to realize that Harry's crying, trying to hide his chocked sobs, but failing.
"Um…are you…ok?" he offers, awkward. He moves to sit as close to Harry's cell as possible, pressing against the bars until his face feels smooched.
Harry's in the middle of his cell, and he looks up from where his head is buried in his hands. His cheeks are red and shine a little. "Ginny died a year ago," he says. "On my birthday."
That's a shame.
"Oh," is all Draco says, but Harry doesn't look like he's ready to stop talking.
"They killed her. They fucking killed her because I wasn't careful enough. I couldn't stay away from her and they killed her and now she's gone and now I've failed and they're just going to keep me locked up in her forever and I've failed."
Tears run down his face and Draco doesn't know what to say. He reaches a hand through the bars instead. Harry looks at it for a second, and then places his own hand in it. It seems so big, compared to the frailty of Draco's.
"You haven't failed," Draco insists. "You're going to get out of here, you are."
You have to.
***
He tells Harry about forgetting what summer feels like. In return, Harry admits that he's forgotten the sound of Ginny's laugh. Later, Harry adds that sometimes he's glad about that, because the more she disappears, the easier it is not to miss her so much. He can hardly remember what Sirius' face looked like.
With so much time alone, it's easy to make their cells into confessionals, each other into priests.
***
They live near each other now, sleeping and eating and sitting against the bars that separate them, sometimes even back to back so that Draco can feel the weak heat from Harry's body.
***
Draco begins to worry when it's two months later and still no rescue party. Maybe Harry wasn't exaggerating when he said there was no one left. He doesn't want to ask.
***
They hear drunken songs from outside their prison, yelps of celebration. A guard shoves the door open long enough to glare at Harry (filthy as Draco now, with the grime worked into his hair and cloths and nails) and laugh.
"And your stupid little Order thought they could stop us!" The door slams, and they're left to wonder what triumph the Death Eaters have now.
Harry cries, the first time since he told Draco about Ginny's death. Not sobs, but silent tears making tracks in the dirt on his face.
What kind of words could fill this silence?
Draco reaches through the bars to make a gesture of comfort, a kind of awkward embrace hindered by their prison. Their faces would touch if it weren't for the metal wedged between them, and as Harry repeats over and over "I've failed, I've failed, I've failed," his breath is light and warm against Draco's cheeks.
Draco finally remembers what a summer breeze feels like. It's nothing like escape, but it's something close to comfort.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Harry, Draco, random Death Eaters
Word Count: 1,533
Rating: Pg-13, for language and angst
Summary: In hell past rivalries lose their meaning
Author's Notes: I did a bit of experimenting with style for this. And by that I mean I had lots of fun with the scene breaks. Thank you SO much to Natalia for the quick and wonderful beta. Any mistakes left are completely my own.
It's a year now, or something like it. Draco tries to keep track with marks on the wall, though it's hard to tell night from day with no windows, only lights turning on and off. But, give or take, it's almost a year, so it must be summer outside, somewhere, because it was summer when he was first thrown into this hell.
Better than being dead, he reminds himself. A year ago he had actually thought it was true. Now, he's not so sure. The monotony seems worse then death, but every time he starts to consider starving himself into the grave, he remembers why he's being kept alive. He's leverage to use against his mother. If he dies, Voldemort will have her by the throat forever, pretending that Draco is still alive somewhere. It is only by actually staying alive that he can hope to one day find freedom for himself, and for her. That's the thought that keeps him going.
It's nothing like hope, but it's sweeter than despair.
It's summer outside, and inside it's almost too cold to bear in his rags, with his fatless, shivering body. He tries to remember what a summer breeze is like, light and warm against his cheeks. He can't really recall the sensation, only the words he sometimes used to describe it.
That's how he knows things are really getting bad.
***
The summer keeps on, and each day he tries and fails to really remember something else: the sound of birds in the morning, the salt air from when he used to visit beaches. The roar of the crowd at Quidditch matches or the colors of the sunsets he would watch with his mother outside the manor.
He tries not to wonder if he'll ever experience any of it again.
***
Another monotonous day is broken up by the rough bustle of guards throwing a prisoner into the cell next to his. Draco is in the middle of trying to force himself to perform wandless magic (a daily exercise that seems to bear increasingly pathetic results as the days and months slip away). He keeps his eyes focused on the pebble he's trying (failing) to levitate. The other prisoner isn't protesting, so he must be knocked out. Nothing interesting there. Besides, Draco doesn't really care who it is: another failed Death Eater, surely. Either he'll have something interesting to say, or they won't. Draco'll find out later.
***
What he finds out later, when he bothers to look over, is that his new companion is Harry Potter; knocked out, blood crusting his hairline.
"This isn't fair," Draco tells no one. "Not fair." He wonders if they're trying to torture him, but of course they aren’t. If anything, it's the other way around. After all, Potter is obviously far more important than he is.
Story of his life. Even in hell fucking Harry Potter is there to show him up.
***
Potter lifts his head hours later, squinting at Draco, who just sits, watching him from the far wall of his small confine.
"Malfoy." Draco notices there's no venom in the way he says it. "I thought you were dead."
Draco bites back a sarcastic reply. He's thought of a better plan: Saint Potter the Savior is going to have the entire Wizarding World looking to get him free, no question. So, don't alienate him. Make friends (crazy and unpleasant as that sounds), and maybe when the rescue party comes, someone will spare the energy it takes to unlock his cage.
He's more than willing to sell a little dignity for freedom.
"Well, I would've thought The Dark Lord would kill you on sight, so I guess we were both wrong."
Potter tilts his head as though he can't believe that Draco isn't being hostile. Then the edges of his lips tug up the tinniest bit. It's the closest thing to a smile Draco's seen in over a year. He tries to curve his lips to match the expression.
"I guess we were," Potter agrees. "I guess that means things could be worse."
Draco doesn't tell him just wait until next summer, then see how you feel.
***
Potter doesn't talk much the next few days, just stares into space. He looks deep in concentration, and Draco wonders if he's trying to unlock his cell with his mind. Probably. It's what Draco did when he was first locked away. He used to think he was getting somewhere with it, too.
Oh, for the naivety of optimism. Those were the good days.
Potter will lose that hope too, and soon.
***
One day, Draco is tired of the silence. He crawls to the wall of bars separating him from Potter. Resting his forehead against the rusting divide, he asks, "So, when is the rescue party coming?"
Potter looks over with a frown. "What rescue party? Malfoy, there's nobody fucking left out there. This god damned war's killed everyone."
Draco doubts that, but he's not sure if that's just the denial talking.
***
"Tell me something about you," Potter says. Draco stops drawing stick figures in the dust.
"What?"
"Tell me a story or something." Potter's lying down, staring at the ceiling, so it's hard to tell what expression he's wearing. "I want to understand what the hell made you do the things you did."
"And by that you mean?"
Potter shrugs. "It means I know more than you think. Tell me a childhood memory."
Potter's voice is commanding, and that makes Draco agree. It doesn't feel like he has a choice. He tells Potter about one fateful Christmas when he broke one of his father's wine glasses, and wasn't allowed any cake. It had been chocolate, too, with almonds: his favorite.
Potter tells him about oversized sweaters and the empty soda cans that passed for presents when he was a kid, and they're even.
***
Each day they tell one story each. It makes the time pass, and soon Draco realizes that he's thinking of Potter as Harry.
***
"I think today's my Birthday," Harry says.
"Happy birthday."
It takes minutes for Draco to realize that Harry's crying, trying to hide his chocked sobs, but failing.
"Um…are you…ok?" he offers, awkward. He moves to sit as close to Harry's cell as possible, pressing against the bars until his face feels smooched.
Harry's in the middle of his cell, and he looks up from where his head is buried in his hands. His cheeks are red and shine a little. "Ginny died a year ago," he says. "On my birthday."
That's a shame.
"Oh," is all Draco says, but Harry doesn't look like he's ready to stop talking.
"They killed her. They fucking killed her because I wasn't careful enough. I couldn't stay away from her and they killed her and now she's gone and now I've failed and they're just going to keep me locked up in her forever and I've failed."
Tears run down his face and Draco doesn't know what to say. He reaches a hand through the bars instead. Harry looks at it for a second, and then places his own hand in it. It seems so big, compared to the frailty of Draco's.
"You haven't failed," Draco insists. "You're going to get out of here, you are."
You have to.
***
He tells Harry about forgetting what summer feels like. In return, Harry admits that he's forgotten the sound of Ginny's laugh. Later, Harry adds that sometimes he's glad about that, because the more she disappears, the easier it is not to miss her so much. He can hardly remember what Sirius' face looked like.
With so much time alone, it's easy to make their cells into confessionals, each other into priests.
***
They live near each other now, sleeping and eating and sitting against the bars that separate them, sometimes even back to back so that Draco can feel the weak heat from Harry's body.
***
Draco begins to worry when it's two months later and still no rescue party. Maybe Harry wasn't exaggerating when he said there was no one left. He doesn't want to ask.
***
They hear drunken songs from outside their prison, yelps of celebration. A guard shoves the door open long enough to glare at Harry (filthy as Draco now, with the grime worked into his hair and cloths and nails) and laugh.
"And your stupid little Order thought they could stop us!" The door slams, and they're left to wonder what triumph the Death Eaters have now.
Harry cries, the first time since he told Draco about Ginny's death. Not sobs, but silent tears making tracks in the dirt on his face.
What kind of words could fill this silence?
Draco reaches through the bars to make a gesture of comfort, a kind of awkward embrace hindered by their prison. Their faces would touch if it weren't for the metal wedged between them, and as Harry repeats over and over "I've failed, I've failed, I've failed," his breath is light and warm against Draco's cheeks.
Draco finally remembers what a summer breeze feels like. It's nothing like escape, but it's something close to comfort.