FIC: Storms
Title: Storms
Rating: G
Word Count: 1,175
Challenge:
Recipient: lomonaaeren
Keywords: storms, ice, erratic
Dialogue:"You just had to do that in front of my mother, didn't you?"
Summary: The evening Harry leaves Grimmauld place for good, a pair of owls arrive with an unexpected package.
Beta Acknowledgement: The lovely ruffians again.
Notes: February pinch-hit for hd_500. Just catching my personal journal up with all the other things I've written lately; sorry for the spam, everyone.
Harry presses his hand against the cold glass of the window, watching as his hand melts away the frost on the other side. He stands in the hall of 12 Grimmauld Place, dark and still, and silent but for the raging sounds of weather from outside. When he takes his hand away, it only takes a moment for the ice to cover his melted handprint.
Just before he turns away, a movement catches his attention from the corner of his eye. Harry has been in the Wizarding world long enough to recognize the erratic up-and-down as the flight of two or more owls who aren’t very compatible. He can’t tell much about the package they’re carrying, except that it’s large and rectangular.
He waits by the window, only intending to stay long enough to be sure they’re not coming to him.
They are, and when they draw close enough he flings open the window, then slams it closed again as soon as they enter.
He doesn’t recognize the owls, and he wouldn’t remember them later if asked; they were both nondescript barn owls. “I don’t have any treats for you here,” he tells them, removing the package from their talons, “but if you’re not in a hurry you can stay here for the night, or at least get dry before you go out in that storm again. You might find something in the kitchen, that way;” he points, and the birds flutter off together.
The package is larger than he thought, but flat, and wrapped in brown paper. When he touches it he can feel an oily water-repelling charm on it, which breaks as he tears the paper off. Slowly he reveals the back of a portrait, but he doesn’t turn it around until all the paper has been removed.
At first he thinks it’s a Muggle painting, and the detail in James’ mussed hair and Lily’s bright green eyes makes Harry’s breath catch. He reaches out, his hand trembling, and touches his mother’s painted cheek, and she shakes herself a little, as if just waking, and smiles at him. “Harry,” she says, and he can’t speak. His hand tightens on the upper edge of the frame where he’s holding it steady, and the corners of his eyes begin to sting. After a moment, she speaks again: “You might want to wake him up too; he’ll be so glad to see you.”
Obediently Harry touches his father’s cheek as well, and he shakes himself in the same way Lily did before beaming out at his son. His eyes are blue, not hazel like Harry had always imagined. Otherwise he feels like he’s looking into a mirror. “Where did you come from?” he asks, in shock.
Lily shrugs, but it is James who speaks. “We’ve been in stasis for-well, I don’t know how long it’s been. Dumbledore said he was going to hide us somewhere, but he never said why-say, he hasn’t told you, has he?”
Harry shakes his head. “He never said anything.” Something is odd about what James has said, but Harry can’t put his finger on it.
“How old are you now, Harry?” Lily asks before he has time to figure it out.
“I’m eighteen, just today,” he answered, and down the hall the front door opens and Draco’s voice comes, muffled but audible.
“I didn’t kill you, you bloody poof.”
Harry’s parents frown, and James has opened his mouth to speak but his voice is drowned out again by Draco’s. “Bloody apparition; I should have killed you when I had the chance. Potter! Are you still here?”
“In the hall, Malfoy,” Harry answers, and James’ face turns red.
“Malfoy? As in Lucius Malfoy? Are you friends with that sort of scum, Harry?” Malfoy enters on the word ‘scum,’ his icy persona asserted as strongly as Harry has seen it since their fifth year.
“I’ll have you know,” he starts, and stops when he sees the portrait. He seems to shrink inward in all directions as he lets his puffed-up façade fall away. “Is that your parents?” he asks dumbly.
“Um, yeah,” Harry answers. “Um, Mum, Dad, this is Draco Malfoy; we were in the same year at Hogwarts.” When James looks ready to launch into a tirade, Harry tries again. “The Lucius Malfoy you knew was scum, and so was the one I knew, but Draco isn’t his father. All right?”
James shoots a suspicious glare in Draco’s direction but shuts up. Lily seems at a loss for words, and it is Draco who breaks the silence finally. “Potter, we were supposed to be at the Leaky ten minutes ago.”
Harry is torn. On the one hand, he’s never had a chance to talk to his parents, and he can’t leave them here; he wasn’t planning on coming back. On the other hand, Seamus’ stag party promises to be brilliant, and Harry is pretty sure he’ll never have one of his own. He bites his lip, thinking, and a moment later Draco is kissing him. For a moment he doesn’t mind-then he jumps back, spluttering. “Malfoy!” he barks. "You just had to do that in front of my mother, didn't you?"
Draco smirks, but without malice. Harry doesn’t tell him he looks frighteningly like a blonde Weasley twin when he does that. Lily is giggling, and James can’t decide who to glare at, and after a few seconds Harry cracks up too. Draco follows, and soon even James is smiling.
“Harry,” Draco says, “Finnegan doesn’t need us to get pissed. Let’s take your parents back to your flat, and we can spend the evening there if you like.”
Harry nods mutely, glad to let someone else take the responsibility. Draco taps his wand on the top edge of the frame and the paper on the floor re-wraps itself around the portrait, the torn edges melting seamlessly back together. He casts a water repelling charm, but this one is different from the original; a little less liquid, a little thicker.
Harry runs upstairs briefly to open a window for the owls, then they step together outside into the storm. Draco’s eyes are bright and almost wild even in this dimness, and they turn into Apparition together, each of them holding one end of the portrait.
~*~
“Thank you,” Draco says, his fingers combing through the head of mussed hair in his lap.
“For what?” Lily answers.
Draco doesn’t say anything for a long time, but both figures in the portrait are patient. When he finally does speak, he doesn’t look away from Harry’s sleeping face. “For-not judging me by my father. Because I’m not sure he’d like me around if you didn’t like me.”
“You’re stupid,” James says bluntly, “but you’re welcome.”
There is nothing more said that night. Draco reads by firelight, and Harry snores on occasion, and it is the portrait more than anything else that makes this room seem like home-even to Draco.
He’s certain if he’s not careful, he’ll turn into a Gryffindor.
Rating: G
Word Count: 1,175
Challenge:
Recipient: lomonaaeren
Keywords: storms, ice, erratic
Dialogue:"You just had to do that in front of my mother, didn't you?"
Summary: The evening Harry leaves Grimmauld place for good, a pair of owls arrive with an unexpected package.
Beta Acknowledgement: The lovely ruffians again.
Notes: February pinch-hit for hd_500. Just catching my personal journal up with all the other things I've written lately; sorry for the spam, everyone.
Harry presses his hand against the cold glass of the window, watching as his hand melts away the frost on the other side. He stands in the hall of 12 Grimmauld Place, dark and still, and silent but for the raging sounds of weather from outside. When he takes his hand away, it only takes a moment for the ice to cover his melted handprint.
Just before he turns away, a movement catches his attention from the corner of his eye. Harry has been in the Wizarding world long enough to recognize the erratic up-and-down as the flight of two or more owls who aren’t very compatible. He can’t tell much about the package they’re carrying, except that it’s large and rectangular.
He waits by the window, only intending to stay long enough to be sure they’re not coming to him.
They are, and when they draw close enough he flings open the window, then slams it closed again as soon as they enter.
He doesn’t recognize the owls, and he wouldn’t remember them later if asked; they were both nondescript barn owls. “I don’t have any treats for you here,” he tells them, removing the package from their talons, “but if you’re not in a hurry you can stay here for the night, or at least get dry before you go out in that storm again. You might find something in the kitchen, that way;” he points, and the birds flutter off together.
The package is larger than he thought, but flat, and wrapped in brown paper. When he touches it he can feel an oily water-repelling charm on it, which breaks as he tears the paper off. Slowly he reveals the back of a portrait, but he doesn’t turn it around until all the paper has been removed.
At first he thinks it’s a Muggle painting, and the detail in James’ mussed hair and Lily’s bright green eyes makes Harry’s breath catch. He reaches out, his hand trembling, and touches his mother’s painted cheek, and she shakes herself a little, as if just waking, and smiles at him. “Harry,” she says, and he can’t speak. His hand tightens on the upper edge of the frame where he’s holding it steady, and the corners of his eyes begin to sting. After a moment, she speaks again: “You might want to wake him up too; he’ll be so glad to see you.”
Obediently Harry touches his father’s cheek as well, and he shakes himself in the same way Lily did before beaming out at his son. His eyes are blue, not hazel like Harry had always imagined. Otherwise he feels like he’s looking into a mirror. “Where did you come from?” he asks, in shock.
Lily shrugs, but it is James who speaks. “We’ve been in stasis for-well, I don’t know how long it’s been. Dumbledore said he was going to hide us somewhere, but he never said why-say, he hasn’t told you, has he?”
Harry shakes his head. “He never said anything.” Something is odd about what James has said, but Harry can’t put his finger on it.
“How old are you now, Harry?” Lily asks before he has time to figure it out.
“I’m eighteen, just today,” he answered, and down the hall the front door opens and Draco’s voice comes, muffled but audible.
“I didn’t kill you, you bloody poof.”
Harry’s parents frown, and James has opened his mouth to speak but his voice is drowned out again by Draco’s. “Bloody apparition; I should have killed you when I had the chance. Potter! Are you still here?”
“In the hall, Malfoy,” Harry answers, and James’ face turns red.
“Malfoy? As in Lucius Malfoy? Are you friends with that sort of scum, Harry?” Malfoy enters on the word ‘scum,’ his icy persona asserted as strongly as Harry has seen it since their fifth year.
“I’ll have you know,” he starts, and stops when he sees the portrait. He seems to shrink inward in all directions as he lets his puffed-up façade fall away. “Is that your parents?” he asks dumbly.
“Um, yeah,” Harry answers. “Um, Mum, Dad, this is Draco Malfoy; we were in the same year at Hogwarts.” When James looks ready to launch into a tirade, Harry tries again. “The Lucius Malfoy you knew was scum, and so was the one I knew, but Draco isn’t his father. All right?”
James shoots a suspicious glare in Draco’s direction but shuts up. Lily seems at a loss for words, and it is Draco who breaks the silence finally. “Potter, we were supposed to be at the Leaky ten minutes ago.”
Harry is torn. On the one hand, he’s never had a chance to talk to his parents, and he can’t leave them here; he wasn’t planning on coming back. On the other hand, Seamus’ stag party promises to be brilliant, and Harry is pretty sure he’ll never have one of his own. He bites his lip, thinking, and a moment later Draco is kissing him. For a moment he doesn’t mind-then he jumps back, spluttering. “Malfoy!” he barks. "You just had to do that in front of my mother, didn't you?"
Draco smirks, but without malice. Harry doesn’t tell him he looks frighteningly like a blonde Weasley twin when he does that. Lily is giggling, and James can’t decide who to glare at, and after a few seconds Harry cracks up too. Draco follows, and soon even James is smiling.
“Harry,” Draco says, “Finnegan doesn’t need us to get pissed. Let’s take your parents back to your flat, and we can spend the evening there if you like.”
Harry nods mutely, glad to let someone else take the responsibility. Draco taps his wand on the top edge of the frame and the paper on the floor re-wraps itself around the portrait, the torn edges melting seamlessly back together. He casts a water repelling charm, but this one is different from the original; a little less liquid, a little thicker.
Harry runs upstairs briefly to open a window for the owls, then they step together outside into the storm. Draco’s eyes are bright and almost wild even in this dimness, and they turn into Apparition together, each of them holding one end of the portrait.
~*~
“Thank you,” Draco says, his fingers combing through the head of mussed hair in his lap.
“For what?” Lily answers.
Draco doesn’t say anything for a long time, but both figures in the portrait are patient. When he finally does speak, he doesn’t look away from Harry’s sleeping face. “For-not judging me by my father. Because I’m not sure he’d like me around if you didn’t like me.”
“You’re stupid,” James says bluntly, “but you’re welcome.”
There is nothing more said that night. Draco reads by firelight, and Harry snores on occasion, and it is the portrait more than anything else that makes this room seem like home-even to Draco.
He’s certain if he’s not careful, he’ll turn into a Gryffindor.