[Fic] Carve Thy Name upon My Nape (2/?)
Title: Carve Thy Name upon My Nape (2/?)
Author: Belladonna
Pairing: Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter
Fandom: Harry Potter
Genre: Drama and angst
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.
Summary: Draco works as a healer at St Mungo's, but there is one patient who only comes to him at night. The medicine he could give to this nocturnal patient of his is human warmth in the form of blood.
Carve Thy Name upon My Nape
by Belladonna
Chapter II: Datura for Deception
St Mungo's, the meeting place of the newborn and the dead, the sane and the insane, fell into a drugged stupor after dark. Candlelight encased in crystal spheres floated listlessly above, its flame dimmed to mirror the darkened sky. A palette of dusk invaded the narrow corridors as bustling of the day gave way to secrecy at night.
Walking briskly in the deserted corridor, Draco clutched his briefcase loosely, the hem of his long overcoat billowed at his wake. The sharp tang of disinfectant and the sickening sweetness reminiscent of withered flowers or rotten fruits tingled his nostrils. The occasional murmur from behind closed door chased after him like the buzz of a wasp.
When he reached the stairwell, he saw Augustus Pye lumbering up the stairs. Bespectacled and unshaven, with a slight slouch and a constant look of ennui, Pye gave the impression of a man whose passion for his job was on the verge of burning out.
The chief healer of Dai Llewellyn Ward gave a vague salute; a whiff of tobacco fluttered from his lime-green robe. "Weren't you on the night shift?"
"I've switched to the day shift." Draco eyed the pack of cigarettes Pye was fiddling with. Pye was a proficient healer; his only vice was his nicotine addiction. He was also one of the few people in St Mungo's who cared little about the notoriety the Malfoy name carries. Others, however, were not as inclined to forgive and forget.
Those jaded blue eyes studied Draco's colourless visage; dark brows knitted into a knot. "How's your research going?"
"It's progressing, though there are details I need to confirm first." Draco paused. "I'm grateful for your input."
"No need to thank me. I don't know what you are really working on, and I don't really care to know."
The senior healer took out a cigarette and tapped the tip on his sleeve. His eyes, however, were fixated on Draco's neck. Draco tensed, for Pye's gaze seemed to penetrate past several layers of fabric to his naked throat.
As if sensing his unease, Pye drawled, "If you don't want to kill yourself, eat something." With that he waved his farewell and went up the stairs.
As soon as the senior healer vanished around the corner, Draco let out a breath and hastened down the stairs to the ground floor. Dull glass lamps greeted him in the nearly empty lobby. A dozen patrons lurked about the reception area; healers carrying clipboards flitted from one patient to the next. A wiry witch with hair red as rust looked bored behind the information desk. Nevertheless, Draco was not looking at her; he was looking at the small posy of black datura on the desk.
The witch looked up at Draco, and, following his gaze, jerked her head impatiently at the flowers. "Someone left these for you. Again."
Draco did not ask who sent the posy; he already knew. Even without the constant reminder, he could not possibly forget the frigid winter that brought him face to face with the despairing revelation about this world.
Flowers as black-hearted as they were deadly, even the seemingly innocent white ribbon around the stems might be dipped in poison. And yet, he strolled forward and took the posy without hesitation. In the depth of his mind, something not entirely of wrath or guilt or regret or even fear rose to the surface of his mind -- it was resignation with a touch of relief.
* * * * * * *
Rain fell upon the domed glass roof like pebbles; water streamed down the side of the pavilion like tears. Inside, a single lamplight stood still, illuminating Draco's visage and the yellowing pages he was poring over. The raven-feather quill and the half-full ink bottle lay ready beside his leather bound notebook. Some distance away was the low table buried beneath mountains of books; a corner was cleared away for the devil's trumpets to mutter their curses.
Minutes lengthened into hours; it was another long, disquiet night. The droning of the rain was occasionally punctured by the scratches of the quill and the crackling of parchment. Sleep was far from Draco's mind. His neck ached, his eyes itched, his head throbbed -- yet he merely rubbed his neck before returning to the text.
A dull thump shattered his focus. Startled, he raised his eyes and looked around. The door was firmly shut as before; rain continued to fall; the silhouette of the mansion proper stood motionless against the bleeding sky. Nonetheless, the back of his neck prickled; someone -- or something -- was watching him in the shadow.
Slowly the healer got up, walked to the door, and pulled it open. Raindrops stung his face like glass shards; the accompanying chill invaded his thinly clothed body; the pattering of rain drowned out his own heartbeat. Yet, as his eyes fell upon a motionless figure by the glass, his other senses deserted him.
Clad in black, the figure was one with the shadow but for the pallor of the skin. A pale hand touched the glass pane; a head of raven black tilted sideways; a pair of glasses glinted. Absinthe green eyes, glowing with unnatural brilliance, gazed placidly at the healer.
Harry.
When his senses rushed back into him, Draco stalked forward and grabbed Harry's frozen hand. Without a word he dragged Harry inside and shut the door behind them. As he let go of his patient, however, icy fingers grasped his hand as if unwilling to part. Looking up, he saw a strange expression passing across Harry's face. Cold bit into his skin like needles, yet the sensation comforted him.
Several tantalising beats later, Harry pulled away. Draco took the opportunity to study him. Like a drowned man Harry was drenched to the bone, his visage waxen as stone. Draco's silvery gaze glided downward to the young man's neck. Neither a scratch nor a trace of blood could be seen above the unbuttoned collar.
Heaving a breath, Harry pushed the dripping strands away from his forehead. "Have I disturbed you? Sorry about that."
"Stop apologising. I'm tired of it," Draco reprimanded in a quiet voice. The cool wetness from Harry's hand lingered still on his like a spectre refusing to rest. Holding the thought for a heartbeat longer, he discreetly clenched his fist before letting the thought die.
When the healer drew his wand and cast the drying charm on his guest and himself, Harry flashed him a smile in gratitude. It was the same smile he wore on a certain rainy night when Draco found him crouching before the gate of the manor with blood on his hands. He had reminded Draco of a stray dog seeking a final resting place. Why he came to his former rival for help, however, was a question Harry had yet to answer.
Absently rubbing the back of his aching neck, Draco asked nonchalantly, "Are you here for the blood? Or are you here to find out how the research is going?"
The bluntness in the healer's tone made Harry grimace, yet his voice lost none of its light-heartedness. "I'll pick choice number three."
Draco leant against the edge of the sofa and crossed his arms. "And what might that be?"
Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Harry mirrored Draco's movement and leant against the glass wall. When he raised his head to regard the healer, his pupils were dark as ink. The heartfelt emotion that characterised his voice was choked to nothingness.
"I had a dream the other night. We were alone in the Great Hall, which was decked in black. There were no candles floating in the air, but I could see everything clearly. In the middle of the hall was a slab of ice, and you were lying on it with your eyes closed. I stood over you with a carving knife in my hand. I thought I should cut you open, and I did. There wasn't as much blood as I imagined. And then I ate you. First the organs, then the torso, the arms, the legs. I ate everything except your head."
Throughout the narrative, Draco contemplated his patient's blank look with unreadable eyes. Once Harry concluded his gruesome account, the healer simply said, "Sit."
Those bloodless lips of Harry's curled upward, and the spell was broken. Taking a deep breath, he strolled to the sofa and sank into it. Immediately his verdant eyes fell upon the flowers on the table, a splash of implacable blackness as if they were moulded from shadow. Compelled by curiosity, he poked the trumpet-like flower, who nodded in response. "What are these called?"
"Datura, also known as devil's trumpet or thorn apple." The healer summoned a bottle of potion and a glass to him.
Harry squinted at the datura with interest. "What is it with you and poison? People usually decorate their houses with non-poisonous flowers."
"I work with poison for a living, Potter," Draco remarked dryly and sat down on the sofa. Nonetheless, he did not divulge to Harry about the datura being a gift.
The healer uncorked the bottle, filled the glass, and handed it to Harry, who accepted it with a mumbled thanks. The honey-tinted potion swirled gently; it was like liquid amber without a past. Harry took a sip, its cool sweetness glided down his throat like satin.
"I thought you would work in the Spell Damage department." Harry rolled the glass between his palms. "It suits you better."
The smiling face of a certain someone who was no more crept within the periphery of Draco's consciousness. "I was there for awhile. Then I got a transfer."
Harry did not ask why, and for a moment, silence prevailed. Rain raged on beyond the glass house; stillness dominated the hollow within. At length, Draco reached out and caressed the datura. The charcoal black flower shuddered as if purring in pleasure.
"What did I taste like in your dream?" Draco's mellow voice fractured the growing languor.
"Like blood and raw meat," Harry replied while absently staring at Draco's hand; alabaster fingers flirted with poisonous black velvet.
Several heartbeats later, Draco withdrew his hand and rubbed his fingertips together. "You didn't ask, but I'll say it anyway. I'm not confident that I will find a permanent cure. In fact, I still haven't fathomed out what you are."
Running his thumb over the rim of the glass, Harry said in an eerily unperturbed tone, "Something not quite human, I suppose?" He smiled, even though there was no humour in his eyes. "Well then," he put down the glass and got up, "I should go."
As his patient turned to leave, the healer noted his lonely back and languid movement. This man who was once his arch-nemesis was a waif lost in a world of uncertainty. And yet, he seemed more tangible to Draco than the blood and scars and deformity and madness and death he had witnessed at St Mungo's.
Propelled by impulse or by delirium, neither of which seemed any different from the other, Draco opened his mouth. "You can stay if you like. I won't throw you out."
The dark figure halted, a shadow caught by the wires of light. "Are you saying this out of obligation as my healer?"
"Yes," Draco replied without skipping a beat. "It will be easier for me to observe you if you are close by."
Ever so hesitantly, Harry turned around, his boyish visage a complexion of yearning and denial. Parched lips parted to utter four simple words. "I might kill you."
Mercurial eyes bored into absinthe green, deeply, unfalteringly. "I shall deal with it when the time comes."
* * * * * * *
For several days, the world was drowning in ceaseless rain. A bouquet of frost and chill was already in the air, signalling what would be as brutal a winter as the last. The sky languished in a sea of ashes and dust; below, the earth drifted into a profound slumber.
The dying autumn never departed from the manor; the prelude to winter slipped in uninvited. However unchanged the manor appeared, within those unlit corridors and dust-ridden rooms, something other than human and ghost roamed. Curtains were drawn from dawn to dusk; another set of footsteps prowled the corridors after dark.
In the evening well past the blue hour, the owner of the house could be seen taking his supper in the parlour, at times alone, at times accompanied by his new lodger. The walls in the parlour were painted a sombre hunter green. A large mahogany cabinet with double glass door reigned one end; French windows dominated the other. In between, upholstered chairs and mahogany tables were strewn in a vague semblance of order.
A wisp of cool air and the whisper of rain trickled into the room through the open window. And there by the window, Harry sat on the floor, brooding over the glass chessboard before him. Barefoot and enveloped in a thin white shirt, he seemed oblivious to the cold.
Verdant eyes looked up as Draco, carrying a silver tray with him, entered the parlour. When their eyes met, the healer paused for a second before striding across the room. The healer had been living alone for so long he had forgotten what it was like to live with someone.
The patient watched as the healer put down the tray and flopped onto an armchair. The observer became the observed. "You look tired. Bad day at work?"
"I'm fine." Draco poured himself a cup of tea. The citric fragrance of bergamot circled the air like a butterfly. White steam twirled, and in the background, candlelight wavered.
He did not ask what Harry did during the day; he had witnessed everything when he stood over his patient every day after dawn. The routine was akin to standing over a coffin and observing the departed, mourning day after day in a never-ending cycle of funerals.
Frowning at the state of his solitary chess game, Harry heaved a sigh. "Say, have you ever played chess by yourself and reached a stalemate?"
Mercurial eyes flickered briefly towards the figure who was rubbing his chin in meditation. "Yes, I have."
"It's maddening, isn't it?" Harry mused aloud as he removed the kings from the board and lined them up with other discarded corpses. The survivors of the game seemed lost without a king they could protect. "To drive yourself to a corner without intending to, I mean."
"Yes, it is," the healer paused, "maddening."
Draco wrapped his cool fingers around the cup and brought it to his equally cool lips. The aromatic warmth reminded him of something Harry had said: Blood is life in actuality and love in disguise. Every time it flowed down his throat, it melted the frost in his heart and showed him an illusion of happiness.
Mentally shaking himself out of the reminiscence, Draco got up, and to Harry's surprise, sat down on the floor. Putting aside his cup of liquid warmth for the time being, he returned the chess pieces to their initial position, granting them new life and new purpose. And Harry, smiling faintly at him, accepted the challenge.
Wintry breeze invaded the parlour and brushed an indecent finger over Draco's neck, where a long, narrow scar could be seen just above the graceful curve of the collar-bone, a mark permanently etched on his skin. When Draco inhaled deeply, he could taste the bergamot in the parlour, the wet grass outside the window, the cedar fragrance from himself, and nothing from Harry.
As Harry pondered his next move, Draco squinted at the nocturnal landscape that was as black as the datura he had received, wondering if Harry knew one of his old friends was dead, and that he, Draco Malfoy, was the architect behind the passing.
* * * * * * *
To be continued...
A/N: After taking a break from writing, I have finally returned to what I love to do best. I don't have much to say other than a simple thank you. As well, eurydike has kindly translated several of my stories into German, which can be found here. I offer my sincere gratitude to you, my dear eurydike.
Author: Belladonna
Pairing: Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter
Fandom: Harry Potter
Genre: Drama and angst
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.
Summary: Draco works as a healer at St Mungo's, but there is one patient who only comes to him at night. The medicine he could give to this nocturnal patient of his is human warmth in the form of blood.
Carve Thy Name upon My Nape
by Belladonna
Chapter II: Datura for Deception
St Mungo's, the meeting place of the newborn and the dead, the sane and the insane, fell into a drugged stupor after dark. Candlelight encased in crystal spheres floated listlessly above, its flame dimmed to mirror the darkened sky. A palette of dusk invaded the narrow corridors as bustling of the day gave way to secrecy at night.
Walking briskly in the deserted corridor, Draco clutched his briefcase loosely, the hem of his long overcoat billowed at his wake. The sharp tang of disinfectant and the sickening sweetness reminiscent of withered flowers or rotten fruits tingled his nostrils. The occasional murmur from behind closed door chased after him like the buzz of a wasp.
When he reached the stairwell, he saw Augustus Pye lumbering up the stairs. Bespectacled and unshaven, with a slight slouch and a constant look of ennui, Pye gave the impression of a man whose passion for his job was on the verge of burning out.
The chief healer of Dai Llewellyn Ward gave a vague salute; a whiff of tobacco fluttered from his lime-green robe. "Weren't you on the night shift?"
"I've switched to the day shift." Draco eyed the pack of cigarettes Pye was fiddling with. Pye was a proficient healer; his only vice was his nicotine addiction. He was also one of the few people in St Mungo's who cared little about the notoriety the Malfoy name carries. Others, however, were not as inclined to forgive and forget.
Those jaded blue eyes studied Draco's colourless visage; dark brows knitted into a knot. "How's your research going?"
"It's progressing, though there are details I need to confirm first." Draco paused. "I'm grateful for your input."
"No need to thank me. I don't know what you are really working on, and I don't really care to know."
The senior healer took out a cigarette and tapped the tip on his sleeve. His eyes, however, were fixated on Draco's neck. Draco tensed, for Pye's gaze seemed to penetrate past several layers of fabric to his naked throat.
As if sensing his unease, Pye drawled, "If you don't want to kill yourself, eat something." With that he waved his farewell and went up the stairs.
As soon as the senior healer vanished around the corner, Draco let out a breath and hastened down the stairs to the ground floor. Dull glass lamps greeted him in the nearly empty lobby. A dozen patrons lurked about the reception area; healers carrying clipboards flitted from one patient to the next. A wiry witch with hair red as rust looked bored behind the information desk. Nevertheless, Draco was not looking at her; he was looking at the small posy of black datura on the desk.
The witch looked up at Draco, and, following his gaze, jerked her head impatiently at the flowers. "Someone left these for you. Again."
Draco did not ask who sent the posy; he already knew. Even without the constant reminder, he could not possibly forget the frigid winter that brought him face to face with the despairing revelation about this world.
Flowers as black-hearted as they were deadly, even the seemingly innocent white ribbon around the stems might be dipped in poison. And yet, he strolled forward and took the posy without hesitation. In the depth of his mind, something not entirely of wrath or guilt or regret or even fear rose to the surface of his mind -- it was resignation with a touch of relief.
* * * * * * *
Rain fell upon the domed glass roof like pebbles; water streamed down the side of the pavilion like tears. Inside, a single lamplight stood still, illuminating Draco's visage and the yellowing pages he was poring over. The raven-feather quill and the half-full ink bottle lay ready beside his leather bound notebook. Some distance away was the low table buried beneath mountains of books; a corner was cleared away for the devil's trumpets to mutter their curses.
Minutes lengthened into hours; it was another long, disquiet night. The droning of the rain was occasionally punctured by the scratches of the quill and the crackling of parchment. Sleep was far from Draco's mind. His neck ached, his eyes itched, his head throbbed -- yet he merely rubbed his neck before returning to the text.
A dull thump shattered his focus. Startled, he raised his eyes and looked around. The door was firmly shut as before; rain continued to fall; the silhouette of the mansion proper stood motionless against the bleeding sky. Nonetheless, the back of his neck prickled; someone -- or something -- was watching him in the shadow.
Slowly the healer got up, walked to the door, and pulled it open. Raindrops stung his face like glass shards; the accompanying chill invaded his thinly clothed body; the pattering of rain drowned out his own heartbeat. Yet, as his eyes fell upon a motionless figure by the glass, his other senses deserted him.
Clad in black, the figure was one with the shadow but for the pallor of the skin. A pale hand touched the glass pane; a head of raven black tilted sideways; a pair of glasses glinted. Absinthe green eyes, glowing with unnatural brilliance, gazed placidly at the healer.
Harry.
When his senses rushed back into him, Draco stalked forward and grabbed Harry's frozen hand. Without a word he dragged Harry inside and shut the door behind them. As he let go of his patient, however, icy fingers grasped his hand as if unwilling to part. Looking up, he saw a strange expression passing across Harry's face. Cold bit into his skin like needles, yet the sensation comforted him.
Several tantalising beats later, Harry pulled away. Draco took the opportunity to study him. Like a drowned man Harry was drenched to the bone, his visage waxen as stone. Draco's silvery gaze glided downward to the young man's neck. Neither a scratch nor a trace of blood could be seen above the unbuttoned collar.
Heaving a breath, Harry pushed the dripping strands away from his forehead. "Have I disturbed you? Sorry about that."
"Stop apologising. I'm tired of it," Draco reprimanded in a quiet voice. The cool wetness from Harry's hand lingered still on his like a spectre refusing to rest. Holding the thought for a heartbeat longer, he discreetly clenched his fist before letting the thought die.
When the healer drew his wand and cast the drying charm on his guest and himself, Harry flashed him a smile in gratitude. It was the same smile he wore on a certain rainy night when Draco found him crouching before the gate of the manor with blood on his hands. He had reminded Draco of a stray dog seeking a final resting place. Why he came to his former rival for help, however, was a question Harry had yet to answer.
Absently rubbing the back of his aching neck, Draco asked nonchalantly, "Are you here for the blood? Or are you here to find out how the research is going?"
The bluntness in the healer's tone made Harry grimace, yet his voice lost none of its light-heartedness. "I'll pick choice number three."
Draco leant against the edge of the sofa and crossed his arms. "And what might that be?"
Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Harry mirrored Draco's movement and leant against the glass wall. When he raised his head to regard the healer, his pupils were dark as ink. The heartfelt emotion that characterised his voice was choked to nothingness.
"I had a dream the other night. We were alone in the Great Hall, which was decked in black. There were no candles floating in the air, but I could see everything clearly. In the middle of the hall was a slab of ice, and you were lying on it with your eyes closed. I stood over you with a carving knife in my hand. I thought I should cut you open, and I did. There wasn't as much blood as I imagined. And then I ate you. First the organs, then the torso, the arms, the legs. I ate everything except your head."
Throughout the narrative, Draco contemplated his patient's blank look with unreadable eyes. Once Harry concluded his gruesome account, the healer simply said, "Sit."
Those bloodless lips of Harry's curled upward, and the spell was broken. Taking a deep breath, he strolled to the sofa and sank into it. Immediately his verdant eyes fell upon the flowers on the table, a splash of implacable blackness as if they were moulded from shadow. Compelled by curiosity, he poked the trumpet-like flower, who nodded in response. "What are these called?"
"Datura, also known as devil's trumpet or thorn apple." The healer summoned a bottle of potion and a glass to him.
Harry squinted at the datura with interest. "What is it with you and poison? People usually decorate their houses with non-poisonous flowers."
"I work with poison for a living, Potter," Draco remarked dryly and sat down on the sofa. Nonetheless, he did not divulge to Harry about the datura being a gift.
The healer uncorked the bottle, filled the glass, and handed it to Harry, who accepted it with a mumbled thanks. The honey-tinted potion swirled gently; it was like liquid amber without a past. Harry took a sip, its cool sweetness glided down his throat like satin.
"I thought you would work in the Spell Damage department." Harry rolled the glass between his palms. "It suits you better."
The smiling face of a certain someone who was no more crept within the periphery of Draco's consciousness. "I was there for awhile. Then I got a transfer."
Harry did not ask why, and for a moment, silence prevailed. Rain raged on beyond the glass house; stillness dominated the hollow within. At length, Draco reached out and caressed the datura. The charcoal black flower shuddered as if purring in pleasure.
"What did I taste like in your dream?" Draco's mellow voice fractured the growing languor.
"Like blood and raw meat," Harry replied while absently staring at Draco's hand; alabaster fingers flirted with poisonous black velvet.
Several heartbeats later, Draco withdrew his hand and rubbed his fingertips together. "You didn't ask, but I'll say it anyway. I'm not confident that I will find a permanent cure. In fact, I still haven't fathomed out what you are."
Running his thumb over the rim of the glass, Harry said in an eerily unperturbed tone, "Something not quite human, I suppose?" He smiled, even though there was no humour in his eyes. "Well then," he put down the glass and got up, "I should go."
As his patient turned to leave, the healer noted his lonely back and languid movement. This man who was once his arch-nemesis was a waif lost in a world of uncertainty. And yet, he seemed more tangible to Draco than the blood and scars and deformity and madness and death he had witnessed at St Mungo's.
Propelled by impulse or by delirium, neither of which seemed any different from the other, Draco opened his mouth. "You can stay if you like. I won't throw you out."
The dark figure halted, a shadow caught by the wires of light. "Are you saying this out of obligation as my healer?"
"Yes," Draco replied without skipping a beat. "It will be easier for me to observe you if you are close by."
Ever so hesitantly, Harry turned around, his boyish visage a complexion of yearning and denial. Parched lips parted to utter four simple words. "I might kill you."
Mercurial eyes bored into absinthe green, deeply, unfalteringly. "I shall deal with it when the time comes."
* * * * * * *
For several days, the world was drowning in ceaseless rain. A bouquet of frost and chill was already in the air, signalling what would be as brutal a winter as the last. The sky languished in a sea of ashes and dust; below, the earth drifted into a profound slumber.
The dying autumn never departed from the manor; the prelude to winter slipped in uninvited. However unchanged the manor appeared, within those unlit corridors and dust-ridden rooms, something other than human and ghost roamed. Curtains were drawn from dawn to dusk; another set of footsteps prowled the corridors after dark.
In the evening well past the blue hour, the owner of the house could be seen taking his supper in the parlour, at times alone, at times accompanied by his new lodger. The walls in the parlour were painted a sombre hunter green. A large mahogany cabinet with double glass door reigned one end; French windows dominated the other. In between, upholstered chairs and mahogany tables were strewn in a vague semblance of order.
A wisp of cool air and the whisper of rain trickled into the room through the open window. And there by the window, Harry sat on the floor, brooding over the glass chessboard before him. Barefoot and enveloped in a thin white shirt, he seemed oblivious to the cold.
Verdant eyes looked up as Draco, carrying a silver tray with him, entered the parlour. When their eyes met, the healer paused for a second before striding across the room. The healer had been living alone for so long he had forgotten what it was like to live with someone.
The patient watched as the healer put down the tray and flopped onto an armchair. The observer became the observed. "You look tired. Bad day at work?"
"I'm fine." Draco poured himself a cup of tea. The citric fragrance of bergamot circled the air like a butterfly. White steam twirled, and in the background, candlelight wavered.
He did not ask what Harry did during the day; he had witnessed everything when he stood over his patient every day after dawn. The routine was akin to standing over a coffin and observing the departed, mourning day after day in a never-ending cycle of funerals.
Frowning at the state of his solitary chess game, Harry heaved a sigh. "Say, have you ever played chess by yourself and reached a stalemate?"
Mercurial eyes flickered briefly towards the figure who was rubbing his chin in meditation. "Yes, I have."
"It's maddening, isn't it?" Harry mused aloud as he removed the kings from the board and lined them up with other discarded corpses. The survivors of the game seemed lost without a king they could protect. "To drive yourself to a corner without intending to, I mean."
"Yes, it is," the healer paused, "maddening."
Draco wrapped his cool fingers around the cup and brought it to his equally cool lips. The aromatic warmth reminded him of something Harry had said: Blood is life in actuality and love in disguise. Every time it flowed down his throat, it melted the frost in his heart and showed him an illusion of happiness.
Mentally shaking himself out of the reminiscence, Draco got up, and to Harry's surprise, sat down on the floor. Putting aside his cup of liquid warmth for the time being, he returned the chess pieces to their initial position, granting them new life and new purpose. And Harry, smiling faintly at him, accepted the challenge.
Wintry breeze invaded the parlour and brushed an indecent finger over Draco's neck, where a long, narrow scar could be seen just above the graceful curve of the collar-bone, a mark permanently etched on his skin. When Draco inhaled deeply, he could taste the bergamot in the parlour, the wet grass outside the window, the cedar fragrance from himself, and nothing from Harry.
As Harry pondered his next move, Draco squinted at the nocturnal landscape that was as black as the datura he had received, wondering if Harry knew one of his old friends was dead, and that he, Draco Malfoy, was the architect behind the passing.
* * * * * * *
To be continued...
A/N: After taking a break from writing, I have finally returned to what I love to do best. I don't have much to say other than a simple thank you. As well, eurydike has kindly translated several of my stories into German, which can be found here. I offer my sincere gratitude to you, my dear eurydike.