Fic: Coming Home (The Roaming Gnome Remix)
Originally posted at hd_remix.
Title: Coming Home (The Roaming Gnome Remix)
Author: wook77
Pairing(s): H/D
Rating: PG-13
Summary: How many roads must a man walk down before he can no longer stay true to himself?
Word Count: 1817
Disclaimer: All characters contained within belong to JK Rowling and associated business partners. No infringement meant. Additionally, the Roaming Gnome belongs to Travelocity and associated business partners. Finally, I do not own the original story or the world they're in, that belongs to empathic_siren.
Author's notes: Summary paraphrased from a quotation by Bob Dylan. Beta'd by janicechess and yodels and I owe them a great debt of gratitude. All remaining mistakes are my own. This is a remix of: empathic_siren's Coming Home
Another dead end.
Another gut-wrenching cycle of hope and disappointment.
Another month spent, afterwards, wondering if this - all of this - was worth it.
Draco flopped back into his chair, curling one leg over the arm as he reclined, and rubbed at his temples. His head was throbbing. He closed his eyes and let the soothing pressure take away a bit of the pain.
No amount of time together, no matter how meaningful or fondly-remembered, was worth this. Why did he continue looking after all these years?
~~**~~
Majorca was a pretty island, as much as a Muggle tourist destination could be, and was larger than he'd assumed, as well. Draco found himself confused as to where to start. His informant had only told him that a man matching Harry's description - dark hair, green eyes, scar - had been seen on the beach tossing pebbles into the ocean near a pier.
It was a flimsy lead, one that Draco wouldn't have followed up on even a year ago. But now, seven years after Harry's disappearance, he found himself haring off to new locations on the flimsiest clues. Kicking at the sand that seeped between his toes, he continued walking towards yet another pier. Hopefully, this time, it would be the one where the bloke went. As he approached, his heart started to race and he checked his pocket fob. Almost noon and soon he'd find out whether their informant was full of shite or if he'd actually found Harry. No matter how he tried to suppress it, hope still curled deep in his gut, its warmth filling him as he walked even closer.
Sitting on a nearby boulder, he waited. Tapping his fingers on his thigh, he waited. Gazing into the sun, he waited. Watching the ebb and flow of the ocean, he waited. Fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty minutes. The bloke wasn't going to show; he'd been a fool to come today.
Just as he pushed off the rock, a dark-haired man walked past. Draco's breath seized. The warmth pulsed inside of him so strongly he could almost hear it.
The man turned and smiled, and everything collapsed. It wasn't Harry.
~~**~~
The Manor seemed particularly cold after the time spent on the island. He'd successfully avoided Granger's owls, firecalls and good intentions for a week. Pretty soon, though, she'd find a way around his wards and his private musings - he wouldn't use the word 'moping' - would be prime fodder for Granger's haranguing.
He was going to stop this cycle. No more searching. Ever. Harry was gone.
~~**~~
Edinburgh was beautiful this time of year, he thought drolly as he wondered, not for the first time, why, after eight years, he was still searching. Though the skies were grey and overcast, there was still a friendly vibe to the place that even Draco could feel as he walked through the city near Edinburgh Castle. The slope of the street was steep but Draco didn't mind. It was a bit of exercise and used up some of the energy he would've otherwise devoted to nerves and hesitation.
Granger had got a report of a young man matching Harry's description - down to the lightning bolt scar - in a kiltmaker's shop along the market street Draco was currently climbing. After visiting the shop twice, Draco had found out that the man worked on Wednesdays. As it was currently Wednesday, things were looking up.
Even after resolving to never ever ever attempt to look for Harry again, Draco had leapt at the opportunity to follow up on this lead. It had only taken one damnable look from Granger to have him packing up and heading north. There was a bite in the air; Draco paused to rewrap his scarf around his neck. This was followed by a check in the glass of a shop to ensure his hair wasn't mussed. Which was followed by shifting his coat to have the buttons perfectly centered down his chest.
When he caught himself fixing his hair once more, Draco sighed and then, with a final brush down his chest, started back up the hill. When he found Potter, the first thing he'd do was smack him. Yes, smacking would be exactly the right action. He deserved a cuff to his head for putting Draco through this.
But really, Draco deserved a cuff to the head for doing this to himself. They'd only had a week together after the defeat of the Dark Lord. A week of arguments about the past seven years that had slowly slid into heated discussions that had slowly slid into friendly discussions about what-if. A week of exploring their changing dynamics without thought to family obligations or, even more importantly, without the spectre of death hanging over Harry. A week that had seemed to promise kisses and happiness in the future.
A week before Harry collapsed and went into the hospital.
One week of what-ifs and unspoken promises couldn't, wouldn't, didn't justify this suffering of year upon year of false leads and heartache.
The sound of his teeth grinding broke him out of his maudlin thoughts. He'd walked right past the shop. With a grimace, he turned and stalked back to it. It only took a glance through the window to realise that he'd wasted his time on yet another false lead.
~~**~~
Draco's dreams were getting too personal, too prophetic, too close, too much, too everything. After Edinburgh, he slept more than ever. In dreams, at least, he had hands ghosting down his body, touching him, loving him. In dreams, ghost lips teased him and did amazing things to his flesh that he'd never actually experienced.
This, too, was Harry's fault. Harry had been the one to stop Draco as he'd leaned in to press lip against lip. Harry had whispered something about waiting for just a bit longer, that Ron was just in the other room and Ginny could walk in anytime.
Draco ripped the blankets away and sat on the edge of the bed, his head resting in his hands as he stared down at his knees and boney ankles. Hands fisted into hair, tugging at it, the slight pain almost enough to take him away from the dream of seeing Harry on the street corner, reaching a hand out to save him from a tumble into traffic. His fingers tightened in his hair even further as he remembered the astonished wanting look on Harry's face as Draco pulled him in until they were touching chest to chest.
"Fucking hell, this has got to stop," he said as he stood and stalked into the shower.
~~**~~
Why anyone thought that Harry Potter would be hiding out in a tiny village in the middle of Romania, Draco wouldn't ever understand. However, Granger had tempted him with details that seemed far too good to be true, especially after nine years of looking. So, yet again, Draco's resolve to stop searching tumbled into nothing while he packed for another journey.
Unlike in Edinburgh or Majorca or Paris or Newcastle, Draco refused to stay more than a week this time. He'd barely packed the basic necessities before Apparating. Romania was cold, too fucking cold to stay. The sparse little village was so desolate that Draco wanted nothing to do with it. Barely anyone spoke English. According to the one woman that did, there was a young man living in a small house on the very outskirts of the village who didn't speak to the rest of the townsfolk. He kept to himself, spoke very little of the local dialect and had a scar across his forehead in the shape of a lightning bolt. She'd made a sign to ward off evil as she told him of mysterious things the man did with a piece of wood and how even the children of the village stayed away from him.
The villagers kept to themselves and so did the man. Hopefully, that would work in Draco's favour, so that when he carted Harry Potter back to England to face the justice meted out by those he'd left behind, no one would miss him. Draco wasn't quite sure if he would punch him in the face or the gut first. Perhaps he'd Stun him and then cuff him. Or maybe he'd press his lips to Harry's, ravage his mouth even if Harry protested. No matter which he chose, he'd finally feel Harry's skin under his hands.
Knocking on the door, Draco tapped his hand against his thigh before wiping the sweat from his palm. He reached into his pocket and gripped his wand.
That gesture saved his life: a man bearing the Dark Mark opened the door.
~~**~~
The dance club was packed, with no space between the bodies writhing on the dance floor. Harry's grin turned mischievous as Draco shimmied in place, hands drifting up Harry's sides, under his shirt. Draco found himself flipped around, Harry's hardness pressing into him from behind as hands fumbled with his belt and then the fastenings of his trousers. Before he could blink, Draco was naked in the middle of the crowd and Harry's hands were everywhere, pinching a nipple, tracing the ridges of his abdomen, delving past his cock and touching his balls and then, oh and then, gripping his cock with both of his hands.
This was exactly what he wanted, this touching and wantingneedingloving. It was just too bad that Draco woke up before Harry could bring him to completion. Instead of Harry's hands on his cock, it was his own. With a curse, Draco released it, and pushed himself out of bed.
~~**~~
"Absolutely no way in God's green Earth am I going anywhere ever again," Draco said with a glare.
"But, this time, we have proof and -"
"The last five times, you've had proof. Five, Granger, five leads that led to bollocks."
"This time, we have a Healer from St. Mungo's. Harry's Healer and he said that the Ministry -"
"What part of 'no' do you not understand? Did they not teach proper English in your horribly Plebian Muggle upbringing?" Draco looked away from the firecall.
"He's in Ayr. I know it, Malfoy."
"Let me guess. This proof is from a drunken sot who couldn't put two words together without the assistance of a bottle." Granger's pause was enough. "I'm right and you know it. The answer is and will be 'no'. Goodbye, Granger, don't call me, I'll call you. You know the drill."
"But -"
"Goodbye." Draco closed the connection and went back to his ruminations. This was all for the best. He wouldn't spend the rest of his life chasing after Harry Sodding Potter. He wouldn't. It was time that he lived in the real world, not in the world of What If and Make Believe. And yet, a small niggling thought tickled at the back of his mind.
What if?
As always, I'd love to hear what you thought.
Title: Coming Home (The Roaming Gnome Remix)
Author: wook77
Pairing(s): H/D
Rating: PG-13
Summary: How many roads must a man walk down before he can no longer stay true to himself?
Word Count: 1817
Disclaimer: All characters contained within belong to JK Rowling and associated business partners. No infringement meant. Additionally, the Roaming Gnome belongs to Travelocity and associated business partners. Finally, I do not own the original story or the world they're in, that belongs to empathic_siren.
Author's notes: Summary paraphrased from a quotation by Bob Dylan. Beta'd by janicechess and yodels and I owe them a great debt of gratitude. All remaining mistakes are my own. This is a remix of: empathic_siren's Coming Home
Another dead end.
Another gut-wrenching cycle of hope and disappointment.
Another month spent, afterwards, wondering if this - all of this - was worth it.
Draco flopped back into his chair, curling one leg over the arm as he reclined, and rubbed at his temples. His head was throbbing. He closed his eyes and let the soothing pressure take away a bit of the pain.
No amount of time together, no matter how meaningful or fondly-remembered, was worth this. Why did he continue looking after all these years?
~~**~~
Majorca was a pretty island, as much as a Muggle tourist destination could be, and was larger than he'd assumed, as well. Draco found himself confused as to where to start. His informant had only told him that a man matching Harry's description - dark hair, green eyes, scar - had been seen on the beach tossing pebbles into the ocean near a pier.
It was a flimsy lead, one that Draco wouldn't have followed up on even a year ago. But now, seven years after Harry's disappearance, he found himself haring off to new locations on the flimsiest clues. Kicking at the sand that seeped between his toes, he continued walking towards yet another pier. Hopefully, this time, it would be the one where the bloke went. As he approached, his heart started to race and he checked his pocket fob. Almost noon and soon he'd find out whether their informant was full of shite or if he'd actually found Harry. No matter how he tried to suppress it, hope still curled deep in his gut, its warmth filling him as he walked even closer.
Sitting on a nearby boulder, he waited. Tapping his fingers on his thigh, he waited. Gazing into the sun, he waited. Watching the ebb and flow of the ocean, he waited. Fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty minutes. The bloke wasn't going to show; he'd been a fool to come today.
Just as he pushed off the rock, a dark-haired man walked past. Draco's breath seized. The warmth pulsed inside of him so strongly he could almost hear it.
The man turned and smiled, and everything collapsed. It wasn't Harry.
~~**~~
The Manor seemed particularly cold after the time spent on the island. He'd successfully avoided Granger's owls, firecalls and good intentions for a week. Pretty soon, though, she'd find a way around his wards and his private musings - he wouldn't use the word 'moping' - would be prime fodder for Granger's haranguing.
He was going to stop this cycle. No more searching. Ever. Harry was gone.
~~**~~
Edinburgh was beautiful this time of year, he thought drolly as he wondered, not for the first time, why, after eight years, he was still searching. Though the skies were grey and overcast, there was still a friendly vibe to the place that even Draco could feel as he walked through the city near Edinburgh Castle. The slope of the street was steep but Draco didn't mind. It was a bit of exercise and used up some of the energy he would've otherwise devoted to nerves and hesitation.
Granger had got a report of a young man matching Harry's description - down to the lightning bolt scar - in a kiltmaker's shop along the market street Draco was currently climbing. After visiting the shop twice, Draco had found out that the man worked on Wednesdays. As it was currently Wednesday, things were looking up.
Even after resolving to never ever ever attempt to look for Harry again, Draco had leapt at the opportunity to follow up on this lead. It had only taken one damnable look from Granger to have him packing up and heading north. There was a bite in the air; Draco paused to rewrap his scarf around his neck. This was followed by a check in the glass of a shop to ensure his hair wasn't mussed. Which was followed by shifting his coat to have the buttons perfectly centered down his chest.
When he caught himself fixing his hair once more, Draco sighed and then, with a final brush down his chest, started back up the hill. When he found Potter, the first thing he'd do was smack him. Yes, smacking would be exactly the right action. He deserved a cuff to his head for putting Draco through this.
But really, Draco deserved a cuff to the head for doing this to himself. They'd only had a week together after the defeat of the Dark Lord. A week of arguments about the past seven years that had slowly slid into heated discussions that had slowly slid into friendly discussions about what-if. A week of exploring their changing dynamics without thought to family obligations or, even more importantly, without the spectre of death hanging over Harry. A week that had seemed to promise kisses and happiness in the future.
A week before Harry collapsed and went into the hospital.
One week of what-ifs and unspoken promises couldn't, wouldn't, didn't justify this suffering of year upon year of false leads and heartache.
The sound of his teeth grinding broke him out of his maudlin thoughts. He'd walked right past the shop. With a grimace, he turned and stalked back to it. It only took a glance through the window to realise that he'd wasted his time on yet another false lead.
~~**~~
Draco's dreams were getting too personal, too prophetic, too close, too much, too everything. After Edinburgh, he slept more than ever. In dreams, at least, he had hands ghosting down his body, touching him, loving him. In dreams, ghost lips teased him and did amazing things to his flesh that he'd never actually experienced.
This, too, was Harry's fault. Harry had been the one to stop Draco as he'd leaned in to press lip against lip. Harry had whispered something about waiting for just a bit longer, that Ron was just in the other room and Ginny could walk in anytime.
Draco ripped the blankets away and sat on the edge of the bed, his head resting in his hands as he stared down at his knees and boney ankles. Hands fisted into hair, tugging at it, the slight pain almost enough to take him away from the dream of seeing Harry on the street corner, reaching a hand out to save him from a tumble into traffic. His fingers tightened in his hair even further as he remembered the astonished wanting look on Harry's face as Draco pulled him in until they were touching chest to chest.
"Fucking hell, this has got to stop," he said as he stood and stalked into the shower.
~~**~~
Why anyone thought that Harry Potter would be hiding out in a tiny village in the middle of Romania, Draco wouldn't ever understand. However, Granger had tempted him with details that seemed far too good to be true, especially after nine years of looking. So, yet again, Draco's resolve to stop searching tumbled into nothing while he packed for another journey.
Unlike in Edinburgh or Majorca or Paris or Newcastle, Draco refused to stay more than a week this time. He'd barely packed the basic necessities before Apparating. Romania was cold, too fucking cold to stay. The sparse little village was so desolate that Draco wanted nothing to do with it. Barely anyone spoke English. According to the one woman that did, there was a young man living in a small house on the very outskirts of the village who didn't speak to the rest of the townsfolk. He kept to himself, spoke very little of the local dialect and had a scar across his forehead in the shape of a lightning bolt. She'd made a sign to ward off evil as she told him of mysterious things the man did with a piece of wood and how even the children of the village stayed away from him.
The villagers kept to themselves and so did the man. Hopefully, that would work in Draco's favour, so that when he carted Harry Potter back to England to face the justice meted out by those he'd left behind, no one would miss him. Draco wasn't quite sure if he would punch him in the face or the gut first. Perhaps he'd Stun him and then cuff him. Or maybe he'd press his lips to Harry's, ravage his mouth even if Harry protested. No matter which he chose, he'd finally feel Harry's skin under his hands.
Knocking on the door, Draco tapped his hand against his thigh before wiping the sweat from his palm. He reached into his pocket and gripped his wand.
That gesture saved his life: a man bearing the Dark Mark opened the door.
~~**~~
The dance club was packed, with no space between the bodies writhing on the dance floor. Harry's grin turned mischievous as Draco shimmied in place, hands drifting up Harry's sides, under his shirt. Draco found himself flipped around, Harry's hardness pressing into him from behind as hands fumbled with his belt and then the fastenings of his trousers. Before he could blink, Draco was naked in the middle of the crowd and Harry's hands were everywhere, pinching a nipple, tracing the ridges of his abdomen, delving past his cock and touching his balls and then, oh and then, gripping his cock with both of his hands.
This was exactly what he wanted, this touching and wantingneedingloving. It was just too bad that Draco woke up before Harry could bring him to completion. Instead of Harry's hands on his cock, it was his own. With a curse, Draco released it, and pushed himself out of bed.
~~**~~
"Absolutely no way in God's green Earth am I going anywhere ever again," Draco said with a glare.
"But, this time, we have proof and -"
"The last five times, you've had proof. Five, Granger, five leads that led to bollocks."
"This time, we have a Healer from St. Mungo's. Harry's Healer and he said that the Ministry -"
"What part of 'no' do you not understand? Did they not teach proper English in your horribly Plebian Muggle upbringing?" Draco looked away from the firecall.
"He's in Ayr. I know it, Malfoy."
"Let me guess. This proof is from a drunken sot who couldn't put two words together without the assistance of a bottle." Granger's pause was enough. "I'm right and you know it. The answer is and will be 'no'. Goodbye, Granger, don't call me, I'll call you. You know the drill."
"But -"
"Goodbye." Draco closed the connection and went back to his ruminations. This was all for the best. He wouldn't spend the rest of his life chasing after Harry Sodding Potter. He wouldn't. It was time that he lived in the real world, not in the world of What If and Make Believe. And yet, a small niggling thought tickled at the back of his mind.
What if?
As always, I'd love to hear what you thought.