(no subject)
Title: Haunting Harry
Author: Phoenix Angel Suyari
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Summary: It's hard not being a hero. And it's hard living in between. Here with the light on, in the dark.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter, and all other characters from the popular series are the sole ownership of J.K. Rowling and like all other authors, I'm merely borrowing them for my own satisfaction. Enjoy.
A/N: Inspired by ponderosa121's Last Supper.
"Damn," is the first thing he says, postmortem.
Had he known this would happen, he'd have found another way, or at the very least tried sticking it out a bit longer. Alas, it's been done, and he's died - but not completely. So there's no turning back.
He doesn't really know why, but the first postmortem thought he has is of a person. And that person is Potter. Before he's even aware of it, he's left his cold, dark, lonely mansion and materialized in a bedroom of warm colors. There are pictures on the shelves, and because he has nothing better to do, Draco floats by and looks at them.
Everyone is smiling. Or laughing. Or otherwise engaged in some similarly happy expression. As he passes each frame by, he categorizes them and notices that all the frames on the left hold pictures of the dead. The frames on the right are clustered together at the end, too few memories of the survivors. And in the middle are the fallen, the lost - but obviously not forsaken. Draco blinks, idly thinking, that if the shelves were balances, they'd tip so heavily to the left they'd probably tear the wall.
Beside them is a modest looking dresser, across from a four poster bed that is so strikingly familiar to the ones they'd used at Hogwarts, Draco can't be sure it wasn't stolen. Of course, the maroon bed curtains and red and gold sheets help. There is a door a foot or two from the end of the bed, that likely lead to the bathroom. There was just enough room between the frame of it and the large school trunk at the foot of the bed not to trip, he supposed. On the other side of the frame sat a shoddy looking desk and old chair. It could very well have been called an antique had it been properly taken care of. Draco would know, the manor was full of them.
Just beyond that lay a small hearth, where a light fire crackled. A single, worn armchair sat beside it, flanked by a tall bookshelf. To the right was a thinner doorway - most likely the closet - that had a slim, copper lamp for a companion. It separated the 'closet' from what was most likely the door to the room itself. Looking down, Draco notes his feet don't quite reach the hardwood floors and red patterned oriental rug that kept the center of the room warm.
The sound of a door opening draws his attention, and he turns to find Potter shuffling into the room, adjusting a white towel about his middle. His hair is wet, and drips trails down his sun kissed skin. The water slipping downward lazily over a well toned body. His glasses are off, and there's something about the languid way he moves that keeps the former Slytherin from looking away.
Once the towel has been settled to his satisfaction, Potter sighs heavily and runs both hands through dark locks that cling. As the hair is pushed back by average fingers, Potter tips his head back, and Draco follows the simple lines of his rival's body. Along the firm, sturdy jaw, down the neck that is longer than it has any right to be. There's a scar over Potter's chest where the Dark Lord had attempted to cut out his heart a few years back. And over his hip, a silver stag tattoo tosses it's antlers proudly at a tattoo of a black dog, that cocks it's head and opens it's mouth to loll a pink tongue.
He doesn't seem surprised when he looks and finds Draco. Instead, he sighs again and greets him.
"Malfoy."
"Potter," Draco says, forgetting he is dead. He crosses his arms over his chest and leans back in a stance that no longer adheres to the law of gravity.
"So," says Potter, padding across the room. Draco can't hear his footsteps, and not for the first time, wonders if Potter practiced being so quiet, or whether his movements were a product of years of watching where he stepped. Though, even at twenty-seven, the former Boy-Who-Lived could never be accused of looking before he leapt.
He goes around Draco, as if the other still had a form consisting of mass, and sits down on the bed. "Do you want to talk about it?"
Draco shrugs and floats over. He would be satisfied that he were taller, if he didn't know the only reason he was looking down at Potter was because he no longer had feet to touch the floor. The thought reminds him that he is dead, which causes a frown to mar a once pale brow.
"I got bored."
"Hmm," says Potter, before he drops back against the Gryfindor colored comforter.
There's a long silence, where Draco hovers and Potter doesn't say anything. He lays upon the bed, a forearm thrown over his closed eyes. He breathes so silently, Draco has to hover closer and lean into him to see the controlled inhales.
Potter's chest stills with a hitch, and he slides his arm away. Draco can see wet tracks - that may be tears, or perhaps just rivulets from his hair.
"You're cold," he says, and there's a tightness to his tone.
"You're crying," Draco replies, going with the time honored tradition of mocking the other.
Potter surprises him by saying, "Of course I am" and moving to stand.
Draco gasps as the other passes through him, and for a moment he can see odd flashes. They're gone before he can focus however, and Potter is standing across from the picture frames.
"I'm touched," is Draco's reply. But it's not as snide as he'd have preferred. To be honest, he is genuinely touched - not that he'd ever let Potter know.
Potter doesn't reply, and Draco watches him reach for a frame, hesitate, and finally catch it up. He draws it close, looking down at it, before setting it down on the opposite side.
"You have a picture of me?" he asks, curious as to how he'd missed so important a detail.
"I have a picture of everyone," replies Potter.
Draco moves to peruse the picture of himself, as Potter returns to the bed.
The former blond frowns as he looks at the picture, turning to look back at Potter when he can no longer stand to see it.
"You should have told me you were in love with me," he says, proud that it rumbles with loathing.
"I'm sorry," is the reply, Potter clasping his hands between his knees, head down turned. "I should have."
Draco doesn't like the feelings his words evoke, and tries to float away, but finds the walls have barred him in.
Potter watches him bump into them several times, drifting back into the center of the room with each denial.
"Know much about ghosts, Malfoy?"
He ignores him to the best of his ability.
"See, in order to become a ghost in the first place, you have to have some sort of unfinished business."
"I prefer it here."
"They're drawn to it, like a moth to a flame as soon as they pass. The desire is so strong, they can't help themselves."
Draco snorts, and tries again.
"Once they've reached where they need to be, they can't leave. Malfoy...Draco."
Draco is so startled by the sound of his name, he forgets he is ignoring him and turns.
"Did you love me too?"
Silver eyes meet emerald green, and he knows he can't lie about this.
"Yes," he finds himself saying, before common sense wins out.
Potter sighs.
"I'm sorry."
"Potter," he says. Then, "Harry" when the other doesn't look at him.
A weary head lifts, eyes dulled by war focusing on him to the best of their ability.
"As it seems you are my unfinished business, there is something I feel we must discuss."
Harry cocks an eyebrow expectantly.
Draco extends his arms, gesticulating about him to encompass the stretch of the room. "Your sense of style. If I'm going to be stuck with you for all eternity, we're going to have to change a few things."
"Not for all eternity, Malfoy," he drawls. "Just until I die." But he smiles anyway.
Draco pretends not to hear him and starts to rant about the curtains.
After all, Draco is absolutely certain that Harry will always be his unfinished business. And Harry has proven his inability to die several times over. Not that Draco is afraid of him dying. He just knows it isn't a possibility. And even if it comes to it, he'll be around to ensure that Potter remained with him. In this world or the next.
Because there was one thing he knew would be true from now on.
He'd never feel lonely again.
Author: Phoenix Angel Suyari
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Summary: It's hard not being a hero. And it's hard living in between. Here with the light on, in the dark.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter, and all other characters from the popular series are the sole ownership of J.K. Rowling and like all other authors, I'm merely borrowing them for my own satisfaction. Enjoy.
A/N: Inspired by ponderosa121's Last Supper.
"Damn," is the first thing he says, postmortem.
Had he known this would happen, he'd have found another way, or at the very least tried sticking it out a bit longer. Alas, it's been done, and he's died - but not completely. So there's no turning back.
He doesn't really know why, but the first postmortem thought he has is of a person. And that person is Potter. Before he's even aware of it, he's left his cold, dark, lonely mansion and materialized in a bedroom of warm colors. There are pictures on the shelves, and because he has nothing better to do, Draco floats by and looks at them.
Everyone is smiling. Or laughing. Or otherwise engaged in some similarly happy expression. As he passes each frame by, he categorizes them and notices that all the frames on the left hold pictures of the dead. The frames on the right are clustered together at the end, too few memories of the survivors. And in the middle are the fallen, the lost - but obviously not forsaken. Draco blinks, idly thinking, that if the shelves were balances, they'd tip so heavily to the left they'd probably tear the wall.
Beside them is a modest looking dresser, across from a four poster bed that is so strikingly familiar to the ones they'd used at Hogwarts, Draco can't be sure it wasn't stolen. Of course, the maroon bed curtains and red and gold sheets help. There is a door a foot or two from the end of the bed, that likely lead to the bathroom. There was just enough room between the frame of it and the large school trunk at the foot of the bed not to trip, he supposed. On the other side of the frame sat a shoddy looking desk and old chair. It could very well have been called an antique had it been properly taken care of. Draco would know, the manor was full of them.
Just beyond that lay a small hearth, where a light fire crackled. A single, worn armchair sat beside it, flanked by a tall bookshelf. To the right was a thinner doorway - most likely the closet - that had a slim, copper lamp for a companion. It separated the 'closet' from what was most likely the door to the room itself. Looking down, Draco notes his feet don't quite reach the hardwood floors and red patterned oriental rug that kept the center of the room warm.
The sound of a door opening draws his attention, and he turns to find Potter shuffling into the room, adjusting a white towel about his middle. His hair is wet, and drips trails down his sun kissed skin. The water slipping downward lazily over a well toned body. His glasses are off, and there's something about the languid way he moves that keeps the former Slytherin from looking away.
Once the towel has been settled to his satisfaction, Potter sighs heavily and runs both hands through dark locks that cling. As the hair is pushed back by average fingers, Potter tips his head back, and Draco follows the simple lines of his rival's body. Along the firm, sturdy jaw, down the neck that is longer than it has any right to be. There's a scar over Potter's chest where the Dark Lord had attempted to cut out his heart a few years back. And over his hip, a silver stag tattoo tosses it's antlers proudly at a tattoo of a black dog, that cocks it's head and opens it's mouth to loll a pink tongue.
He doesn't seem surprised when he looks and finds Draco. Instead, he sighs again and greets him.
"Malfoy."
"Potter," Draco says, forgetting he is dead. He crosses his arms over his chest and leans back in a stance that no longer adheres to the law of gravity.
"So," says Potter, padding across the room. Draco can't hear his footsteps, and not for the first time, wonders if Potter practiced being so quiet, or whether his movements were a product of years of watching where he stepped. Though, even at twenty-seven, the former Boy-Who-Lived could never be accused of looking before he leapt.
He goes around Draco, as if the other still had a form consisting of mass, and sits down on the bed. "Do you want to talk about it?"
Draco shrugs and floats over. He would be satisfied that he were taller, if he didn't know the only reason he was looking down at Potter was because he no longer had feet to touch the floor. The thought reminds him that he is dead, which causes a frown to mar a once pale brow.
"I got bored."
"Hmm," says Potter, before he drops back against the Gryfindor colored comforter.
There's a long silence, where Draco hovers and Potter doesn't say anything. He lays upon the bed, a forearm thrown over his closed eyes. He breathes so silently, Draco has to hover closer and lean into him to see the controlled inhales.
Potter's chest stills with a hitch, and he slides his arm away. Draco can see wet tracks - that may be tears, or perhaps just rivulets from his hair.
"You're cold," he says, and there's a tightness to his tone.
"You're crying," Draco replies, going with the time honored tradition of mocking the other.
Potter surprises him by saying, "Of course I am" and moving to stand.
Draco gasps as the other passes through him, and for a moment he can see odd flashes. They're gone before he can focus however, and Potter is standing across from the picture frames.
"I'm touched," is Draco's reply. But it's not as snide as he'd have preferred. To be honest, he is genuinely touched - not that he'd ever let Potter know.
Potter doesn't reply, and Draco watches him reach for a frame, hesitate, and finally catch it up. He draws it close, looking down at it, before setting it down on the opposite side.
"You have a picture of me?" he asks, curious as to how he'd missed so important a detail.
"I have a picture of everyone," replies Potter.
Draco moves to peruse the picture of himself, as Potter returns to the bed.
The former blond frowns as he looks at the picture, turning to look back at Potter when he can no longer stand to see it.
"You should have told me you were in love with me," he says, proud that it rumbles with loathing.
"I'm sorry," is the reply, Potter clasping his hands between his knees, head down turned. "I should have."
Draco doesn't like the feelings his words evoke, and tries to float away, but finds the walls have barred him in.
Potter watches him bump into them several times, drifting back into the center of the room with each denial.
"Know much about ghosts, Malfoy?"
He ignores him to the best of his ability.
"See, in order to become a ghost in the first place, you have to have some sort of unfinished business."
"I prefer it here."
"They're drawn to it, like a moth to a flame as soon as they pass. The desire is so strong, they can't help themselves."
Draco snorts, and tries again.
"Once they've reached where they need to be, they can't leave. Malfoy...Draco."
Draco is so startled by the sound of his name, he forgets he is ignoring him and turns.
"Did you love me too?"
Silver eyes meet emerald green, and he knows he can't lie about this.
"Yes," he finds himself saying, before common sense wins out.
Potter sighs.
"I'm sorry."
"Potter," he says. Then, "Harry" when the other doesn't look at him.
A weary head lifts, eyes dulled by war focusing on him to the best of their ability.
"As it seems you are my unfinished business, there is something I feel we must discuss."
Harry cocks an eyebrow expectantly.
Draco extends his arms, gesticulating about him to encompass the stretch of the room. "Your sense of style. If I'm going to be stuck with you for all eternity, we're going to have to change a few things."
"Not for all eternity, Malfoy," he drawls. "Just until I die." But he smiles anyway.
Draco pretends not to hear him and starts to rant about the curtains.
After all, Draco is absolutely certain that Harry will always be his unfinished business. And Harry has proven his inability to die several times over. Not that Draco is afraid of him dying. He just knows it isn't a possibility. And even if it comes to it, he'll be around to ensure that Potter remained with him. In this world or the next.
Because there was one thing he knew would be true from now on.
He'd never feel lonely again.