Fic: Hands Open [Harry/Draco, PG-13]
hd_remix's masterlist went up today, so now I can formally thank lusiology for Dying by Degrees, her remix of my Prelude Series.
This is my contribution, a remix of rurounihime's Once Spoken.
Title: Hands Open
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 5,000
Summary: Harry likes to remember.
A/N Thank you to coffeejunkii for her infinite patience and rurounihime for gifting us with such a wonderful story. Warning for some dark themes.
"Do you remember Ernie Macmillan?"
Harry smiles faintly. All his conversations with Draco seem to start this way. Do you remember the old shed behind the Quidditch stands? Or that time Neville accidentally set the potions classroom on fire, Fifth Year... or Professor Binns… or Colin Creevey or… Ernie Macmillan?
"Of course, I do," Harry replies as he always does, nestling his head gratefully into Draco's lap. An idle finger traces along his scar, soothing his heated skin.
There is a meadow a few hundred paces from the cottage in Brideswich where they live. It's a gorgeous place, full of overgrown flowers and gently blowing grass. By midday it's this shy of being too hot, and sweat prickles the surface of his skin, but there are cool breezes and soothing fingers and mischievous grey eyes to take the edge off.
Harry likes to come here, not to think or forget, but to remember.
A finger tugs at his ear, a gentle reminder that Draco is still there. As if Harry could ever forget.
"Hufflepuff," he says absently. "Same year as us." A welcome gust of air lifts the strands of his hair, cooling his skin.
"He liked you, you know." Draco voice is soft, teasing, and the edges of Harry's lips curl upwards.
"Why wouldn't he?" Harry replies, stretching his arms above his head. Thunder roils in the distance and it smells like rain.
"No, I mean he liked you," Draco repeats with emphasis.
Harry cracks his eyes open. "Ernie Macmillan?" He turns his head slightly, just enough to Draco's face. The wind is picking up, tossing Draco's hair in a way that he would have never tolerated back in school. It suits him, softening the brittle edges of Draco's face.
Draco nods. "All that hero shit. He got off on it."
Harry smirks, closing his eyes again. "Did he now? And you know this how?"
Draco groans. "It was so obvious. The way he hung on your every word. You never heard him go on about you in History of Magic, Sixth Year. It was pathetic."
"Liking me is pathetic, is it?" Harry cocks his head again to meet Draco's teasing eyes, but Draco is looking elsewhere, over his shoulder at a tangled copse of trees on the edge of the forest.
"You know what I mean, Harry" he replies, his voice tight, distracted.
"Draco." Harry knows what he is doing. He's thinking about them, and what they're going to do when they come for him. He grasps Draco's hand, entangling their fingers, and he tries not to notice how frail Draco has become. "It's just the storm," he tells him, hoping to keep the ruse going just a little while longer.
Draco exhales sharply before meeting Harry's eyes. "Sorry, I tried."
A door slams down the corridor outside their cell, followed by the heavy footsteps of their jailer. "S'okay," Harry whispers as he wills his body to sit up. Nausea hits him almost instantly, but he manages, scooting across the bench to the corner where there is at least a filthy wall to rest his head upon.
He lifts a shaking hand to his forehead, wiping away the sweat that still clings to his feverish skin. The yellow sun of his dreams gone.
~*~
When the pain is at its worst, and the curses sear his skin, Harry dreams of summer. Hot wind caresses his face as he tips his head to the sun. He walks through grass that has never been cut, flowers that lift their gentle petals to the sun while trees above his head shake their burden of green.
He used to hate summer. Summer meant Privet Drive and saying goodbye to the wild wonder that was Hogwarts. It meant a miserable house full of miserable people and counting the days until he could return to school, the only place he felt he truly belonged. It was a far cry from something he would fantasize about in a dank and dreary cell.
~*~
Stubborn patches of snow still dotted the ground the first day Harry arrived in Brideswich. He was in a rotten mood. More to the point he was furious. He was willing to do almost anything to defeat Voldemort, but hiding away like a common coward was not one of them. That he had spent the last few hours with Ron frantically digging through the rubble that was once the Burrow made him like something worse. It made him feel like a traitor.
Hermione had insisted, and the fierce look she gave him seconds after they apparated outside the cottage said everything that needed to be said: He had no choice.
The war hadn't just turned ugly. It turned personal. Seeing the Burrow burn down to a few stray cinders was the last straw. Too many people were dying, and they were dying because of him.
"Only three people know you’re here," Hermione told him, tapping a complicated pattern with her wand across the cottage’s worn front door. “Me, you…” She wrinkled her nose as they walked into the dank interior. The light was poor, but even a cursory glance told Harry that it was an Order Standard Issue Safehouse: dreary, under furnished and stinking of stale cigarette smoke and wet socks.
It made Grimmauld Place look positively homey.
She waved her arm irritably in front of her face. “A few cleaning charms will fix that up,” she said, "but you lived with Ron, didn't you?"
She flicked her wand, and the torches lining the walls sprung to life. A small kitchen with a sink full of dirty dishes edged out of the shadows along with a simple table and chairs. There wasn’t a sitting room or a rug. “See? It’s not so bad." Hermione smiled at him grimly.
Harry wanted to ask her if she was fucking mad.
"It's fine," he mumbled instead. That was before he noticed a half-eaten sandwich lying on the table next to a large leather-bound book. The Anarchist's Guide to Potion-making was written across the front in gold block letters.
He suddenly had a sinking feeling. The bubbling cauldron hanging in the hearth plunged his stomach all the way down to his shoes.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the onslaught of a major headache. "Hermione, who else is living here?"
Hermione pursed her lips. "It's not ideal, I know,” she said giving him a look that told him that this hardly was the time or place.
Harry disagreed. He thought it was as good a time as any.
“Not ideal,” he roared, as the sight of Malfoy’s pinched face swept into his thoughts. It didn’t matter that Malfoy had earned his keep within the Order providing intelligence and brewing potions, he was annoying and insufferable. "No," he said, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
Hermione rounded on him so quickly that he crashed backwards into the kitchen table. A glass of pumpkin juice teetered precariously close to Malfoy's book. "No, Harry it's not ideal. None of this is fucking ideal," she cried. Suddenly she was latched on to his neck, weeping into his shoulder. "You have to stay here. I don't know what I'd do if something..." She didn't continue.
Needless to say it was an argument he was destined to lose.
"All right. Fine," he sighed, wrapping his arms around her quivering shoulders. Her wiry hair tickled his nose. "Maybe it'll only be for a few weeks, yeah?" Hermione nodded pitifully.
"Potter."
Hermione hadn't been gone more than a few minutes when Malfoy appeared in her place, standing in the front door.
Harry bristled as Malfoy's potions book slammed shut with an irritated thump. He clenched his teeth. "Malfoy."
Malfoy stalked into the kitchen with a cigarette hanging from his mouth. Harry hated cigarettes. They reminded him of Dudley and his lowlife friends.
"You just missed Hermione. But I suppose you wouldn't want the air around you sullied by a Muggle-born, would you?" he sneered, matching glare for glare as Malfoy dropped an armful of plants on the table. They smelled horrid
"You said it not me," Malfoy replied coolly, standing at the opposite end of the table.
Harry made a face but said nothing. Malfoy wasn't worth it. Isn't that what everyone told him? Besides maybe he would get the hint and leave him alone.
Except Malfoy seemed disinclined to go anywhere as he continued to stand there staring at Harry and blowing out long lungfuls of smoke that settled in the air above their heads. "Potter," he finally said after an immitigable silence. "Do you remember my mother?"
Harry quickly pictured the cold woman berating him in Madam Malkin's shop for mistreating her son. "Yes, of course I do," he replied.
Malfoy paused and flicked the spent cigarette butt behind him. "Her death was hardly ideal, either. Wouldn't you say?" He pointedly grabbed the Potions book out of Harry's hands.
Harry jumped at the sudden intrusion into his personal space and was too flustered to find the right words to reply.
Draco's mouth twisted. "Save it, Potter," he said not giving Harry the chance before storming out of the room.
Harry watched him go and sighed. It had started to rain, the raindrops beating a steady rhythm on the old thatched roof. Somewhere outside the world was spinning forward, leaving him behind.
~*~
The light is too bright today, and Harry moans, trying to shrink back into his skin. His whole body feels like it's on fire, like there are tiny flames licking his skin.
"Harry," a voice calls. A hand touches his face, and he flinches away in pain.
"Don't," he says, hating the feeble sound of his voice. He tries not to scream when they torture him, but he breaks down every time. Sometimes he hates that more than any curse Voldemort throws his way.
"Can you walk?"
Harry peels open his eyes and sees a shadowy figure peering at him. His glasses finally irrevocably shattered two days ago, and he hasn't seen Draco's face since.
He has storm-colored eyes, he remembers. The edges crinkle when he smiles.
"Harry," Draco gently prods, bringing Harry back to the present, and Harry nods.
It hurts to stand. It hurts to do anything, but he says nothing as he slumps heavily onto the stone bench that serves as the only piece of furniture in their barren jail cell. They'll come for Draco soon, a thought that suddenly despairs him, and his hands flutter to his face before pain of his burning skin forces them away.
"Harry?" Draco stirs beside him, and Harry can't stop himself from recoiling.
"I-" He quickly tries to conjure up rustling trees and the two of them walking through the grass. It works for a while. Draco is laughing, telling him a story about the time one of their house-elves got stuck inside a giant Fanged Geranium. It's a cruel story, but Harry can't deny it's amusing, and he laughs despite knowing that Hermione would throttle him for doing so.
But his vision doesn't last, and Harry's laughter fades away, leaving him in a dank cell with burning skin.
"Draco," he says, swallowing thickly. "Tell me a story."
Draco shifts again, a blurry splotch the color of old parchment. "A story?"
"Anything. I-I can't think today."
There is a long silence, and then Draco starts, "Once upon a time there was a little girl who lived at the edge of a large forest."
"A fairy tale?" Harry interrupts. The side of his mouth quirks upward.
"Sure, why not?"
Harry wonders what kind of fairy tales were told in the Malfoy household, full of icy villains and dark magic no doubt, but it’s a sweet tale, not unlike what a mother would tell her sleepy child. Harry feels himself gently drifting away until a door slams outside their cell, and Draco jumps beside him.
Barely aware of what he is doing, Harry pushes himself to his feet and begins to move toward the cell door.
"Harry!" Draco grasps at his arm. "What are you doing?"
The door suddenly swings open, revealing an nasty-looking man. His robes dirty and stained crimson. During the first terrifying days of his confinement Harry wondered if patrolling Voldemort's dungeons only appealed to those who would look repulsive in the light of day, or if it was the torture that made them so ugly. He no longer entertains these thoughts, the one thankful consequence of losing his glasses; he no longer has to look his torturers in the eye when their grubby fingers touch his skin.
"Step aside," the guard wheezes.
They all seem to have lung ailments too, Harry thinks rather hysterically as he straightens his battered body and yells, "No," as forcefully as he can muster.
"Harry!" Draco sounds rather hysterical himself. His fingers pull Harry backward.
There's nothing wrong with a little hysteria. It reminds you that you’re still alive, he tells himself as he takes a step forward intent on ripping the man to shreds.
Draco screams in the background, and Harry realizes too late what a foolish idea that was.
He is lying on the ground now. His skin still on fire, but now he can feel tiny rivulets of blood running down his face and arms, hot like a brand against his skin. Drop by drop they hit the ground as the door to the cell slams shut, with Draco on the other side. That's when Harry decides he can take whatever curses they throw at him. It's Draco's sobs that cut him through to the bone, sharper than any knife.
~*~
April slid into May, bringing green grass, dewy mornings and more bad news. A team of Aurors had disappeared in Devon only to have their wolf-ravaged bodies turn up the following day. One survived, if barely.
A few days later Tonks disappeared. Remus had been tracking Fenrir and his pack, and left her alone. It was a mistake Ron vowed not to repeat with Hermione, and weeks went by before anyone visited the cottage.
It was during that time that Harry watched through the dingy window, a figure in black ducking raindrops as he approached the cottage. It was Malfoy, just a hint of blond hair could be seen underneath his black hood, and Harry wondered for the first time when the coils of rage inside him disappeared whenever Malfoy made an appearance.
Was it boredom, loneliness, or just forced inactivity?
"Potter," he said in greeting, walking in the door and pulling off his cloak in a shower of raindrops.
"Hi," Harry replied. He fidgeted next to the doorway.
Malfoy tucked a damp strand of hair behind his ear and snickered. “Hi? You sound like Third Year girl.” He placed a sodden package on the table along with an armful of plant cuttings.
Harry shoved his hands into his pockets. “Sorry, I was being polite.” He absently fingered one of the cuttings on the table. “What are these?” he asked, curiosity getting the better of him.
Malfoy walked over and swept the plants into his arms. “Potions ingredients. Order business.” He smiled thinly. “Sorry.”
Perhaps the rage wasn’t gone after all. “Malfoy, do you have to be such a gigantic git?”
That earned Harry a wider smile.
~*~
Draco’s voice is weak today. "Do you remember Daphne Greengrass?"
"Daphne" replies Harry thoughtfully, shutting his eyes. He tries to conjure up her image. Hogwarts seems like a lifetime ago.
“She wanted to shag me senseless,” Draco boasts.
Harry gingerly stretches out one of his legs. "Did she?" He shudders as pain lances his kneecap. "Why didn’t you?"
"Wasn’t interested. And Pansy would’ve hexed her."
Harry lets his head fall forward. It’s getting harder to ignore the pain.
Fingertips tangle in his hair. "Beside there was someone else."
Harry's eyes open. "Pansy?"
Draco tugs on one of his locks. "No, git. You."
"Oh." His face suddenly heats. "I thought that was a recent thing."
"You remembered that, did you?"
"How can I forget?" I promise to shag you when we get out of here. "You promised."
Draco's fingers slide down his arm to cover Harry's hand. Harry grasps it weakly. "I always keep my promises, Harry. You should remember that."
~*~
Harry passes an unwilling hand over his eyes before letting it fall to his lap. Blackness stares back at him. He can no longer see, and the first fissure of cold creeps inside him. What if they never get out?
"Why don't they just kill us?" he asks suddenly, his voice cracking. He left behind the shame of tears days ago along with the last of his bucolic visions.
Draco stirs. An icy hand lands on his elbow. "Shhhh," he soothes.
"I can't." Harry shakes his head and bites back a sob.
"Do you remember Theodore Nott?" Draco squeezes his hand.
It takes a while for Harry to reply. "Yes, I remember."
"Good."
~*~
It was already summer, which was two seasons too long by Harry's estimation of the time he spent at Brideswich.
Owls were scarce, and when they came at all the news was so bad that Harry took to ignoring them to the severe detriment of his fingers and ear lobes. Then there were days when Harry wondered if anyone still remembered that he still existed.
When Hedwig arrived with a powder pink scroll attached to her leg, Harry wished he didn't.
It hardly seemed fair.
Ginny was moving to California to stay with an obscure Weasley relative while Harry was stuck in a cramped cottage with Draco Malfoy. That there was an expectation that he write back to express his happiness and gratitude for her safety and well being rankled him further. He was fucking sick of being so bloody noble.
He was so wrapped up in his own self-pity that he didn’t notice the glass of amber-colored liquid placed on the table in front of him.
Hedwig landed on his shoulder and nipped him sharply in the ear. "Hey," he said irritably, batting her away. Then he noticed the glass on the table. "Is that beer?" he asked, narrowing his eyes. "Why?"
"Potter, you really are dull, you know that?" Malfoy replied as he sat down across from him with a glass of beer of his own.
Harry frowned at him and brought the glass closer, sniffing the foamy surface. At once he thought of the cauldrons perpetually bubbling on the hearth. "Did you make this?"
Malfoy shrugged.
The beginning of a smile crossed Harry's face. "Get out," he said, before taking a sip. He wrinkled his nose. "It tastes like…"
"Budweiser," Malfoy finished, grinning. Harry noticed he had very white teeth
"What?" Harry cried, nearly choking. "Where?"
Malfoy rolled his eyes. "There's a village down the road."
Harry's eyes widened. "Wait. You went down to a village -- a Muggle village -- and bought beer."
Malfoy snickered. "I was bored."
Harry shut his eyes and tried to wrap his brain around the fact that Draco " All hail, Pure-blood values" Malfoy walked into a Muggle grocer to purchase American-made brew. He stifled a giggle. "All right," he said. "Cheers. Whatever you say."
Malfoy drew his finger around the rim of his glass. "Do you remember Theodore Nott?"
Harry snorted. "Wasn't he in your House?"
Malfoy gave him a look. "Yes, Potter. Very good. You were paying attention in school after all."
Harry shook his head and drank a deep gulp. He was feeling tingly inside, and he wondered too late if this was some sort of nefarious Malfoy plot. But it also happened that this was also the longest conversation he'd ever had with Malfoy, and it was oddly rather nice. "I didn't think you were friends," he said after taking a few more sips.
Malfoy turned a shade of pink. "Technically we weren't." He drew his finger across the foam before sucking it deep into his mouth. He grinned as he drew his finger slowly out of his mouth in a way that made Harry twitch in his seat.
"Um." Somehow Harry got the feeling he was missing something, or perhaps the answer was staring him in the face. "You and…" Malfoy's grin widened as the gears inside Harry's head visibly clicked into place. "But… What about Pansy?"
Malfoy made a note of disgust. "She wouldn't have me now. Fucking traitor to the cause." His mouth turned further downward. "Neither would Theo, actually." He drained the rest of his beer and set it heavily on the table. His chair scraped the floor as he stood up. "C'mon, let's go outside." He waved his wand, and the remaining six-pack zoomed out of the icebox into his hand.
"Outside." Harry almost forgot about Malfoy's apparent admission that he fooled around with boys. He frowned down at his beer, suddenly feeling very heavy. "I don't know."
"Yes, outside. I'm miserable. You're miserable. Let's go out. There is a world out there in case you forgotten."
"I know that," Harry snapped. "Hermione said… I just don't think it's very safe." Truth was he had ventured out a few times, despite Hermione and Ron's admonitions not too, but he felt exposed, like he was being watched. He suddenly wondered when he had become such a shrinking violet.
He stood up so quickly that his chair clattered to the floor.
Malfoy grinned. Harry noticed that his eyes crinkled along the edges. "Good man," he said.
~*~
The stars blinked down at them. "Budweiser?" Harry had to ask after he drained the last bottle and stretched his body down upon the grass.
Malfoy giggled. "That was a Theo thing too. He loved the stuff and… well, my father always said that it's the quiet ones that you have to worry about…"
"He plied you with cheap Muggle beer, is what you're saying." Harry had a sudden urge to send an express owl to Ron with the news that Draco Malfoy is a cheap lay.
Malfoy cleared his throat. "More or less," he admitted. He began to giggle again. "Malfoys have very low tolerance for alcohol," he explained in all seriousness. "That's why Mother banned whisky from the house whenever the Dark Lord visited."
That shouldn't have been as funny as it was, and soon Harry was laughing too, doubling over as giant peals of laughter shook his body. Perhaps Potters didn't have a high tolerance for alcohol either. He sat up and wiped his eyes. He was about to tell Malfoy that when a hand brushed his thigh.
Harry froze, the words dying on his lips. "I-" he started lamely as Malfoy quickly withdrew his hand and looked away.
"Sorry," Malfoy whispered.
"No, don't be," Harry insisted without thinking to wonder why Malfoy shouldn't be sorry.
Malfoy continued to stare at the ground as Harry looked around, noticing the wind rustling the trees behind them. They were sitting in a clearing surrounded by a tall forest. Tiny white flowers dotted the grass. Caught in the moonlight, they almost glowed like fairy lights. It looked magical.
"Where are we?" said Harry, looking around in awe.
Malfoy seemed grateful for the change in subject. "Just a meadow I found a couple of months ago when I was searching for fluxweed. I like to come here to think." He turned to face Harry. "I don't know about you, but I hate that fucking cottage. I think it's going to kill me if I stay much longer."
Harry stared at the way Malfoy's cheeks were rendered a delicate shade of blue in the moonlight. "Me too," he said, holding Malfoy's gaze. He could feel his ears turning red, and he swallowed once before looking away.
"I should head back," he announced, jumping to his feet as his heart pounded in his chest. He reminded himself that they were both boys and that Malfoy was a gigantic git. With an absurd taste for beer and romantic hideaways.
Malfoy stood too and ran a nervous hand over his robes. "Yes, me too. Potions business. Need to…" He shifted his feet and spun around.
Neither said a word as they hurried back to the cottage.
~*~
When Hermione arrived unexpectedly the following day, she wanted to ask Harry why he wrote such an odd reply to Ginny's letter. What she found was two boys sitting at opposite ends of the kitchen table pointedly staring into their coffee. They both complained of headaches.
If she didn't know better Malfoy was blushing.
~*~
A sibilant whisper brushes Harry's earlobe. "There are fates worse than death, Harry. Did you know that?"
"Yes." Harry's voice sounds jagged to his ears. Broken. His pant legs cling to his skin, and it is with the horrible knowledge that is not murky water, but blood that causes it to do so that nearly forces him to beg for something as easy and merciful as death.
Laughter sounds, and he is rudely shaken. "Wake up, boy. Your fate is not done yet."
No. Somewhere in Harry’s fevered brain, he imagines it’s not.
They open the cell door and shove him inside. He doesn’t cry out when he hits the floor.
~*~
The sun burned in the sky, prickling the surface of Harry’s skin. Even the white flowers, so lush in recent memory, were curling inward, cowed by the heat. They’ll die soon, Harry thought. If the rain continues to stay away.
Malfoy was walking up ahead. There was an edginess to him that Harry hadn’t seen since school. A caustic energy that radiated inner turmoil and anger. It something Harry had all too much experience with.
"Malfoy," Harry finally called out to him. "Stop!"
Malfoy whirled around. A cigarette burned between his fingers. He only smokes when he’s scared, Harry remembered.
"There’s nothing you can say that’ll stop me," he spat, before sticking his cigarette between his teeth.
It was on Harry’s mind to punch him. Instead he tore the cigarette out of his mouth, tossing it aside. "These will kill you, you idiot."
Malfoy sneered. "Don’t pretend you care."
"I-" Harry stamped his foot. "You are so fucking maddening, you know that?” he yelled.
Malfoy laughed, not happily. "At least that was sincere," he replied, and this time Harry did punch him.
Malfoy's hand flew to his jaw as he spat to the ground. He looked at Harry murderously. But he had stopped walking, and Harry was thankful for small favors. Harry lifted his hands; his palms open in supplication. "Don’t go, Draco. Please."
Draco shut his eyes as the wind picked up, blowing blond tendrils of hair over his face. "My father needs me," he said quietly.
Harry remembered the regal-looking owl greeting him outside the window this morning. He had no idea how the owl found Draco, and it made him nervous. "I don’t think it’s what you think it is," Harry replied steadily.
"What are you trying to say?" Draco shouted. "That my father is lying to me? How dare you." He fumbled with the pocket of his robes, finally finding a cigarette before angrily flinging it aside. His eyes flashed. "That's what you'll never understand. Family is everything."
Harry swallowed. "I know." He squinted off into the distance. There was more he wanted to say he just had no idea how to put it into words.
"Don't worry. Granger is your secret keeper. I can't give you up," Draco said. "Even if he asks."
When Harry returned to the cottage, the sound of thunder roiled in the distance. It was going to rain after all.
~*~
"Harry."
Harry's head turns a fraction.
Draco smiles at him, his face pink from the sun. They are walking in the grass under a cloudless sky. It's a perfect day, just like in a fairy tale.
"Draco," he says. "I have to tell you something. I remembered something. Something that you said."
Draco loops ahead of him, walking backwards, the sun creating a halo with his blond hair. "Did you?" he teases.
"Yes."
"Harry."
"Harry, wake up." Wiry hair tickles his cheek. "We found you. We finally found you." The voice is soft like a woman's. It sounds familiar.
"Draco." The word dies on his lips as he feels himself fading away.
"Shhh." The voice is back again. "Draco's here. He's right here."
~*~
A year goes by, and the pain stops, and Harry tries to forget.
He discovers he can't.
~*~
It was the second time in as many weeks that Harry berated himself for being so stupid. The first was not kissing Draco when he had the chance; the second was letting him walk way.
The rain had become a full-scale deluge by the time Harry crossed the meadow for the last time. The grass that once tickled the bottoms of his bare feet now resembled wet, green spaghetti, and he struggled, his feet sinking into the mud while his glasses were rendered almost imperturbable by the rain. He almost made it across to the copse of trees on the forest edge when he saw him.
If the lenses of his glasses weren't so wet with rain he might have noticed the shattered look in Draco's eyes. He might have had time to raise his wand, if his arms weren't so weighted down by his wet robes. As it were he was so happy to see Draco that he called out his name.
He didn't hear Draco telling him to run.
~*~
It's morning, and Harry awakes on blue cotton sheets. He's alone, and for the length of time it takes him to peel open his eyes, he's terrified. But then he remembers.
"Do you remember that promise I made you?"
"Promise? Do you make promises?"
"The one in the cell during the war."
"I'd forgotten."
"Morning."
Harry turns his head slowly as Draco steps into focus. He's carrying something steaming in his hand, and the air is suffused with the scent of hot coffee and cut flowers. "Morning," Harry returns, smiling.
"What?" Draco sounds nervous as he sits down on the bed, clutching his coffee cup to his chest.
Harry's fingers brush against Draco's thigh, feeling warm skin as he traces a scar that runs along its length. There are cages you can lock yourself in even if you are free, he thinks. He catches Draco's eyes and carefully removes the cup from his hands.
"I remembered," he says.
coffeejunkii asked me why I chose this story, and why I remixed it this way. I chose this story because it is one of my favorites. It just moved me and I found myself going back and rereading it again and again. One of the things that struck me about this fic is that we don't get any backstory as to how they ended up sharing a prison cell together and we know very little of their prior relationship, other than when Draco promises, “When we get out of this, I promise to shag you all night.” and Harry replies, saying, “But… we don’t even have sex at all yet. You want our first time to be an all-nighter?” The fanfic writer inside me immediately wanted to fill in the blanks.
As far as the summer imagery goes, that was just a result of a particularly hot and uncomfortable July night.
This is my contribution, a remix of rurounihime's Once Spoken.
Title: Hands Open
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 5,000
Summary: Harry likes to remember.
A/N Thank you to coffeejunkii for her infinite patience and rurounihime for gifting us with such a wonderful story. Warning for some dark themes.
"Do you remember Ernie Macmillan?"
Harry smiles faintly. All his conversations with Draco seem to start this way. Do you remember the old shed behind the Quidditch stands? Or that time Neville accidentally set the potions classroom on fire, Fifth Year... or Professor Binns… or Colin Creevey or… Ernie Macmillan?
"Of course, I do," Harry replies as he always does, nestling his head gratefully into Draco's lap. An idle finger traces along his scar, soothing his heated skin.
There is a meadow a few hundred paces from the cottage in Brideswich where they live. It's a gorgeous place, full of overgrown flowers and gently blowing grass. By midday it's this shy of being too hot, and sweat prickles the surface of his skin, but there are cool breezes and soothing fingers and mischievous grey eyes to take the edge off.
Harry likes to come here, not to think or forget, but to remember.
A finger tugs at his ear, a gentle reminder that Draco is still there. As if Harry could ever forget.
"Hufflepuff," he says absently. "Same year as us." A welcome gust of air lifts the strands of his hair, cooling his skin.
"He liked you, you know." Draco voice is soft, teasing, and the edges of Harry's lips curl upwards.
"Why wouldn't he?" Harry replies, stretching his arms above his head. Thunder roils in the distance and it smells like rain.
"No, I mean he liked you," Draco repeats with emphasis.
Harry cracks his eyes open. "Ernie Macmillan?" He turns his head slightly, just enough to Draco's face. The wind is picking up, tossing Draco's hair in a way that he would have never tolerated back in school. It suits him, softening the brittle edges of Draco's face.
Draco nods. "All that hero shit. He got off on it."
Harry smirks, closing his eyes again. "Did he now? And you know this how?"
Draco groans. "It was so obvious. The way he hung on your every word. You never heard him go on about you in History of Magic, Sixth Year. It was pathetic."
"Liking me is pathetic, is it?" Harry cocks his head again to meet Draco's teasing eyes, but Draco is looking elsewhere, over his shoulder at a tangled copse of trees on the edge of the forest.
"You know what I mean, Harry" he replies, his voice tight, distracted.
"Draco." Harry knows what he is doing. He's thinking about them, and what they're going to do when they come for him. He grasps Draco's hand, entangling their fingers, and he tries not to notice how frail Draco has become. "It's just the storm," he tells him, hoping to keep the ruse going just a little while longer.
Draco exhales sharply before meeting Harry's eyes. "Sorry, I tried."
A door slams down the corridor outside their cell, followed by the heavy footsteps of their jailer. "S'okay," Harry whispers as he wills his body to sit up. Nausea hits him almost instantly, but he manages, scooting across the bench to the corner where there is at least a filthy wall to rest his head upon.
He lifts a shaking hand to his forehead, wiping away the sweat that still clings to his feverish skin. The yellow sun of his dreams gone.
~*~
When the pain is at its worst, and the curses sear his skin, Harry dreams of summer. Hot wind caresses his face as he tips his head to the sun. He walks through grass that has never been cut, flowers that lift their gentle petals to the sun while trees above his head shake their burden of green.
He used to hate summer. Summer meant Privet Drive and saying goodbye to the wild wonder that was Hogwarts. It meant a miserable house full of miserable people and counting the days until he could return to school, the only place he felt he truly belonged. It was a far cry from something he would fantasize about in a dank and dreary cell.
~*~
Stubborn patches of snow still dotted the ground the first day Harry arrived in Brideswich. He was in a rotten mood. More to the point he was furious. He was willing to do almost anything to defeat Voldemort, but hiding away like a common coward was not one of them. That he had spent the last few hours with Ron frantically digging through the rubble that was once the Burrow made him like something worse. It made him feel like a traitor.
Hermione had insisted, and the fierce look she gave him seconds after they apparated outside the cottage said everything that needed to be said: He had no choice.
The war hadn't just turned ugly. It turned personal. Seeing the Burrow burn down to a few stray cinders was the last straw. Too many people were dying, and they were dying because of him.
"Only three people know you’re here," Hermione told him, tapping a complicated pattern with her wand across the cottage’s worn front door. “Me, you…” She wrinkled her nose as they walked into the dank interior. The light was poor, but even a cursory glance told Harry that it was an Order Standard Issue Safehouse: dreary, under furnished and stinking of stale cigarette smoke and wet socks.
It made Grimmauld Place look positively homey.
She waved her arm irritably in front of her face. “A few cleaning charms will fix that up,” she said, "but you lived with Ron, didn't you?"
She flicked her wand, and the torches lining the walls sprung to life. A small kitchen with a sink full of dirty dishes edged out of the shadows along with a simple table and chairs. There wasn’t a sitting room or a rug. “See? It’s not so bad." Hermione smiled at him grimly.
Harry wanted to ask her if she was fucking mad.
"It's fine," he mumbled instead. That was before he noticed a half-eaten sandwich lying on the table next to a large leather-bound book. The Anarchist's Guide to Potion-making was written across the front in gold block letters.
He suddenly had a sinking feeling. The bubbling cauldron hanging in the hearth plunged his stomach all the way down to his shoes.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the onslaught of a major headache. "Hermione, who else is living here?"
Hermione pursed her lips. "It's not ideal, I know,” she said giving him a look that told him that this hardly was the time or place.
Harry disagreed. He thought it was as good a time as any.
“Not ideal,” he roared, as the sight of Malfoy’s pinched face swept into his thoughts. It didn’t matter that Malfoy had earned his keep within the Order providing intelligence and brewing potions, he was annoying and insufferable. "No," he said, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
Hermione rounded on him so quickly that he crashed backwards into the kitchen table. A glass of pumpkin juice teetered precariously close to Malfoy's book. "No, Harry it's not ideal. None of this is fucking ideal," she cried. Suddenly she was latched on to his neck, weeping into his shoulder. "You have to stay here. I don't know what I'd do if something..." She didn't continue.
Needless to say it was an argument he was destined to lose.
"All right. Fine," he sighed, wrapping his arms around her quivering shoulders. Her wiry hair tickled his nose. "Maybe it'll only be for a few weeks, yeah?" Hermione nodded pitifully.
"Potter."
Hermione hadn't been gone more than a few minutes when Malfoy appeared in her place, standing in the front door.
Harry bristled as Malfoy's potions book slammed shut with an irritated thump. He clenched his teeth. "Malfoy."
Malfoy stalked into the kitchen with a cigarette hanging from his mouth. Harry hated cigarettes. They reminded him of Dudley and his lowlife friends.
"You just missed Hermione. But I suppose you wouldn't want the air around you sullied by a Muggle-born, would you?" he sneered, matching glare for glare as Malfoy dropped an armful of plants on the table. They smelled horrid
"You said it not me," Malfoy replied coolly, standing at the opposite end of the table.
Harry made a face but said nothing. Malfoy wasn't worth it. Isn't that what everyone told him? Besides maybe he would get the hint and leave him alone.
Except Malfoy seemed disinclined to go anywhere as he continued to stand there staring at Harry and blowing out long lungfuls of smoke that settled in the air above their heads. "Potter," he finally said after an immitigable silence. "Do you remember my mother?"
Harry quickly pictured the cold woman berating him in Madam Malkin's shop for mistreating her son. "Yes, of course I do," he replied.
Malfoy paused and flicked the spent cigarette butt behind him. "Her death was hardly ideal, either. Wouldn't you say?" He pointedly grabbed the Potions book out of Harry's hands.
Harry jumped at the sudden intrusion into his personal space and was too flustered to find the right words to reply.
Draco's mouth twisted. "Save it, Potter," he said not giving Harry the chance before storming out of the room.
Harry watched him go and sighed. It had started to rain, the raindrops beating a steady rhythm on the old thatched roof. Somewhere outside the world was spinning forward, leaving him behind.
~*~
The light is too bright today, and Harry moans, trying to shrink back into his skin. His whole body feels like it's on fire, like there are tiny flames licking his skin.
"Harry," a voice calls. A hand touches his face, and he flinches away in pain.
"Don't," he says, hating the feeble sound of his voice. He tries not to scream when they torture him, but he breaks down every time. Sometimes he hates that more than any curse Voldemort throws his way.
"Can you walk?"
Harry peels open his eyes and sees a shadowy figure peering at him. His glasses finally irrevocably shattered two days ago, and he hasn't seen Draco's face since.
He has storm-colored eyes, he remembers. The edges crinkle when he smiles.
"Harry," Draco gently prods, bringing Harry back to the present, and Harry nods.
It hurts to stand. It hurts to do anything, but he says nothing as he slumps heavily onto the stone bench that serves as the only piece of furniture in their barren jail cell. They'll come for Draco soon, a thought that suddenly despairs him, and his hands flutter to his face before pain of his burning skin forces them away.
"Harry?" Draco stirs beside him, and Harry can't stop himself from recoiling.
"I-" He quickly tries to conjure up rustling trees and the two of them walking through the grass. It works for a while. Draco is laughing, telling him a story about the time one of their house-elves got stuck inside a giant Fanged Geranium. It's a cruel story, but Harry can't deny it's amusing, and he laughs despite knowing that Hermione would throttle him for doing so.
But his vision doesn't last, and Harry's laughter fades away, leaving him in a dank cell with burning skin.
"Draco," he says, swallowing thickly. "Tell me a story."
Draco shifts again, a blurry splotch the color of old parchment. "A story?"
"Anything. I-I can't think today."
There is a long silence, and then Draco starts, "Once upon a time there was a little girl who lived at the edge of a large forest."
"A fairy tale?" Harry interrupts. The side of his mouth quirks upward.
"Sure, why not?"
Harry wonders what kind of fairy tales were told in the Malfoy household, full of icy villains and dark magic no doubt, but it’s a sweet tale, not unlike what a mother would tell her sleepy child. Harry feels himself gently drifting away until a door slams outside their cell, and Draco jumps beside him.
Barely aware of what he is doing, Harry pushes himself to his feet and begins to move toward the cell door.
"Harry!" Draco grasps at his arm. "What are you doing?"
The door suddenly swings open, revealing an nasty-looking man. His robes dirty and stained crimson. During the first terrifying days of his confinement Harry wondered if patrolling Voldemort's dungeons only appealed to those who would look repulsive in the light of day, or if it was the torture that made them so ugly. He no longer entertains these thoughts, the one thankful consequence of losing his glasses; he no longer has to look his torturers in the eye when their grubby fingers touch his skin.
"Step aside," the guard wheezes.
They all seem to have lung ailments too, Harry thinks rather hysterically as he straightens his battered body and yells, "No," as forcefully as he can muster.
"Harry!" Draco sounds rather hysterical himself. His fingers pull Harry backward.
There's nothing wrong with a little hysteria. It reminds you that you’re still alive, he tells himself as he takes a step forward intent on ripping the man to shreds.
Draco screams in the background, and Harry realizes too late what a foolish idea that was.
He is lying on the ground now. His skin still on fire, but now he can feel tiny rivulets of blood running down his face and arms, hot like a brand against his skin. Drop by drop they hit the ground as the door to the cell slams shut, with Draco on the other side. That's when Harry decides he can take whatever curses they throw at him. It's Draco's sobs that cut him through to the bone, sharper than any knife.
~*~
April slid into May, bringing green grass, dewy mornings and more bad news. A team of Aurors had disappeared in Devon only to have their wolf-ravaged bodies turn up the following day. One survived, if barely.
A few days later Tonks disappeared. Remus had been tracking Fenrir and his pack, and left her alone. It was a mistake Ron vowed not to repeat with Hermione, and weeks went by before anyone visited the cottage.
It was during that time that Harry watched through the dingy window, a figure in black ducking raindrops as he approached the cottage. It was Malfoy, just a hint of blond hair could be seen underneath his black hood, and Harry wondered for the first time when the coils of rage inside him disappeared whenever Malfoy made an appearance.
Was it boredom, loneliness, or just forced inactivity?
"Potter," he said in greeting, walking in the door and pulling off his cloak in a shower of raindrops.
"Hi," Harry replied. He fidgeted next to the doorway.
Malfoy tucked a damp strand of hair behind his ear and snickered. “Hi? You sound like Third Year girl.” He placed a sodden package on the table along with an armful of plant cuttings.
Harry shoved his hands into his pockets. “Sorry, I was being polite.” He absently fingered one of the cuttings on the table. “What are these?” he asked, curiosity getting the better of him.
Malfoy walked over and swept the plants into his arms. “Potions ingredients. Order business.” He smiled thinly. “Sorry.”
Perhaps the rage wasn’t gone after all. “Malfoy, do you have to be such a gigantic git?”
That earned Harry a wider smile.
~*~
Draco’s voice is weak today. "Do you remember Daphne Greengrass?"
"Daphne" replies Harry thoughtfully, shutting his eyes. He tries to conjure up her image. Hogwarts seems like a lifetime ago.
“She wanted to shag me senseless,” Draco boasts.
Harry gingerly stretches out one of his legs. "Did she?" He shudders as pain lances his kneecap. "Why didn’t you?"
"Wasn’t interested. And Pansy would’ve hexed her."
Harry lets his head fall forward. It’s getting harder to ignore the pain.
Fingertips tangle in his hair. "Beside there was someone else."
Harry's eyes open. "Pansy?"
Draco tugs on one of his locks. "No, git. You."
"Oh." His face suddenly heats. "I thought that was a recent thing."
"You remembered that, did you?"
"How can I forget?" I promise to shag you when we get out of here. "You promised."
Draco's fingers slide down his arm to cover Harry's hand. Harry grasps it weakly. "I always keep my promises, Harry. You should remember that."
~*~
Harry passes an unwilling hand over his eyes before letting it fall to his lap. Blackness stares back at him. He can no longer see, and the first fissure of cold creeps inside him. What if they never get out?
"Why don't they just kill us?" he asks suddenly, his voice cracking. He left behind the shame of tears days ago along with the last of his bucolic visions.
Draco stirs. An icy hand lands on his elbow. "Shhhh," he soothes.
"I can't." Harry shakes his head and bites back a sob.
"Do you remember Theodore Nott?" Draco squeezes his hand.
It takes a while for Harry to reply. "Yes, I remember."
"Good."
~*~
It was already summer, which was two seasons too long by Harry's estimation of the time he spent at Brideswich.
Owls were scarce, and when they came at all the news was so bad that Harry took to ignoring them to the severe detriment of his fingers and ear lobes. Then there were days when Harry wondered if anyone still remembered that he still existed.
When Hedwig arrived with a powder pink scroll attached to her leg, Harry wished he didn't.
It hardly seemed fair.
Ginny was moving to California to stay with an obscure Weasley relative while Harry was stuck in a cramped cottage with Draco Malfoy. That there was an expectation that he write back to express his happiness and gratitude for her safety and well being rankled him further. He was fucking sick of being so bloody noble.
He was so wrapped up in his own self-pity that he didn’t notice the glass of amber-colored liquid placed on the table in front of him.
Hedwig landed on his shoulder and nipped him sharply in the ear. "Hey," he said irritably, batting her away. Then he noticed the glass on the table. "Is that beer?" he asked, narrowing his eyes. "Why?"
"Potter, you really are dull, you know that?" Malfoy replied as he sat down across from him with a glass of beer of his own.
Harry frowned at him and brought the glass closer, sniffing the foamy surface. At once he thought of the cauldrons perpetually bubbling on the hearth. "Did you make this?"
Malfoy shrugged.
The beginning of a smile crossed Harry's face. "Get out," he said, before taking a sip. He wrinkled his nose. "It tastes like…"
"Budweiser," Malfoy finished, grinning. Harry noticed he had very white teeth
"What?" Harry cried, nearly choking. "Where?"
Malfoy rolled his eyes. "There's a village down the road."
Harry's eyes widened. "Wait. You went down to a village -- a Muggle village -- and bought beer."
Malfoy snickered. "I was bored."
Harry shut his eyes and tried to wrap his brain around the fact that Draco " All hail, Pure-blood values" Malfoy walked into a Muggle grocer to purchase American-made brew. He stifled a giggle. "All right," he said. "Cheers. Whatever you say."
Malfoy drew his finger around the rim of his glass. "Do you remember Theodore Nott?"
Harry snorted. "Wasn't he in your House?"
Malfoy gave him a look. "Yes, Potter. Very good. You were paying attention in school after all."
Harry shook his head and drank a deep gulp. He was feeling tingly inside, and he wondered too late if this was some sort of nefarious Malfoy plot. But it also happened that this was also the longest conversation he'd ever had with Malfoy, and it was oddly rather nice. "I didn't think you were friends," he said after taking a few more sips.
Malfoy turned a shade of pink. "Technically we weren't." He drew his finger across the foam before sucking it deep into his mouth. He grinned as he drew his finger slowly out of his mouth in a way that made Harry twitch in his seat.
"Um." Somehow Harry got the feeling he was missing something, or perhaps the answer was staring him in the face. "You and…" Malfoy's grin widened as the gears inside Harry's head visibly clicked into place. "But… What about Pansy?"
Malfoy made a note of disgust. "She wouldn't have me now. Fucking traitor to the cause." His mouth turned further downward. "Neither would Theo, actually." He drained the rest of his beer and set it heavily on the table. His chair scraped the floor as he stood up. "C'mon, let's go outside." He waved his wand, and the remaining six-pack zoomed out of the icebox into his hand.
"Outside." Harry almost forgot about Malfoy's apparent admission that he fooled around with boys. He frowned down at his beer, suddenly feeling very heavy. "I don't know."
"Yes, outside. I'm miserable. You're miserable. Let's go out. There is a world out there in case you forgotten."
"I know that," Harry snapped. "Hermione said… I just don't think it's very safe." Truth was he had ventured out a few times, despite Hermione and Ron's admonitions not too, but he felt exposed, like he was being watched. He suddenly wondered when he had become such a shrinking violet.
He stood up so quickly that his chair clattered to the floor.
Malfoy grinned. Harry noticed that his eyes crinkled along the edges. "Good man," he said.
~*~
The stars blinked down at them. "Budweiser?" Harry had to ask after he drained the last bottle and stretched his body down upon the grass.
Malfoy giggled. "That was a Theo thing too. He loved the stuff and… well, my father always said that it's the quiet ones that you have to worry about…"
"He plied you with cheap Muggle beer, is what you're saying." Harry had a sudden urge to send an express owl to Ron with the news that Draco Malfoy is a cheap lay.
Malfoy cleared his throat. "More or less," he admitted. He began to giggle again. "Malfoys have very low tolerance for alcohol," he explained in all seriousness. "That's why Mother banned whisky from the house whenever the Dark Lord visited."
That shouldn't have been as funny as it was, and soon Harry was laughing too, doubling over as giant peals of laughter shook his body. Perhaps Potters didn't have a high tolerance for alcohol either. He sat up and wiped his eyes. He was about to tell Malfoy that when a hand brushed his thigh.
Harry froze, the words dying on his lips. "I-" he started lamely as Malfoy quickly withdrew his hand and looked away.
"Sorry," Malfoy whispered.
"No, don't be," Harry insisted without thinking to wonder why Malfoy shouldn't be sorry.
Malfoy continued to stare at the ground as Harry looked around, noticing the wind rustling the trees behind them. They were sitting in a clearing surrounded by a tall forest. Tiny white flowers dotted the grass. Caught in the moonlight, they almost glowed like fairy lights. It looked magical.
"Where are we?" said Harry, looking around in awe.
Malfoy seemed grateful for the change in subject. "Just a meadow I found a couple of months ago when I was searching for fluxweed. I like to come here to think." He turned to face Harry. "I don't know about you, but I hate that fucking cottage. I think it's going to kill me if I stay much longer."
Harry stared at the way Malfoy's cheeks were rendered a delicate shade of blue in the moonlight. "Me too," he said, holding Malfoy's gaze. He could feel his ears turning red, and he swallowed once before looking away.
"I should head back," he announced, jumping to his feet as his heart pounded in his chest. He reminded himself that they were both boys and that Malfoy was a gigantic git. With an absurd taste for beer and romantic hideaways.
Malfoy stood too and ran a nervous hand over his robes. "Yes, me too. Potions business. Need to…" He shifted his feet and spun around.
Neither said a word as they hurried back to the cottage.
~*~
When Hermione arrived unexpectedly the following day, she wanted to ask Harry why he wrote such an odd reply to Ginny's letter. What she found was two boys sitting at opposite ends of the kitchen table pointedly staring into their coffee. They both complained of headaches.
If she didn't know better Malfoy was blushing.
~*~
A sibilant whisper brushes Harry's earlobe. "There are fates worse than death, Harry. Did you know that?"
"Yes." Harry's voice sounds jagged to his ears. Broken. His pant legs cling to his skin, and it is with the horrible knowledge that is not murky water, but blood that causes it to do so that nearly forces him to beg for something as easy and merciful as death.
Laughter sounds, and he is rudely shaken. "Wake up, boy. Your fate is not done yet."
No. Somewhere in Harry’s fevered brain, he imagines it’s not.
They open the cell door and shove him inside. He doesn’t cry out when he hits the floor.
~*~
The sun burned in the sky, prickling the surface of Harry’s skin. Even the white flowers, so lush in recent memory, were curling inward, cowed by the heat. They’ll die soon, Harry thought. If the rain continues to stay away.
Malfoy was walking up ahead. There was an edginess to him that Harry hadn’t seen since school. A caustic energy that radiated inner turmoil and anger. It something Harry had all too much experience with.
"Malfoy," Harry finally called out to him. "Stop!"
Malfoy whirled around. A cigarette burned between his fingers. He only smokes when he’s scared, Harry remembered.
"There’s nothing you can say that’ll stop me," he spat, before sticking his cigarette between his teeth.
It was on Harry’s mind to punch him. Instead he tore the cigarette out of his mouth, tossing it aside. "These will kill you, you idiot."
Malfoy sneered. "Don’t pretend you care."
"I-" Harry stamped his foot. "You are so fucking maddening, you know that?” he yelled.
Malfoy laughed, not happily. "At least that was sincere," he replied, and this time Harry did punch him.
Malfoy's hand flew to his jaw as he spat to the ground. He looked at Harry murderously. But he had stopped walking, and Harry was thankful for small favors. Harry lifted his hands; his palms open in supplication. "Don’t go, Draco. Please."
Draco shut his eyes as the wind picked up, blowing blond tendrils of hair over his face. "My father needs me," he said quietly.
Harry remembered the regal-looking owl greeting him outside the window this morning. He had no idea how the owl found Draco, and it made him nervous. "I don’t think it’s what you think it is," Harry replied steadily.
"What are you trying to say?" Draco shouted. "That my father is lying to me? How dare you." He fumbled with the pocket of his robes, finally finding a cigarette before angrily flinging it aside. His eyes flashed. "That's what you'll never understand. Family is everything."
Harry swallowed. "I know." He squinted off into the distance. There was more he wanted to say he just had no idea how to put it into words.
"Don't worry. Granger is your secret keeper. I can't give you up," Draco said. "Even if he asks."
When Harry returned to the cottage, the sound of thunder roiled in the distance. It was going to rain after all.
~*~
"Harry."
Harry's head turns a fraction.
Draco smiles at him, his face pink from the sun. They are walking in the grass under a cloudless sky. It's a perfect day, just like in a fairy tale.
"Draco," he says. "I have to tell you something. I remembered something. Something that you said."
Draco loops ahead of him, walking backwards, the sun creating a halo with his blond hair. "Did you?" he teases.
"Yes."
"Harry."
"Harry, wake up." Wiry hair tickles his cheek. "We found you. We finally found you." The voice is soft like a woman's. It sounds familiar.
"Draco." The word dies on his lips as he feels himself fading away.
"Shhh." The voice is back again. "Draco's here. He's right here."
~*~
A year goes by, and the pain stops, and Harry tries to forget.
He discovers he can't.
~*~
It was the second time in as many weeks that Harry berated himself for being so stupid. The first was not kissing Draco when he had the chance; the second was letting him walk way.
The rain had become a full-scale deluge by the time Harry crossed the meadow for the last time. The grass that once tickled the bottoms of his bare feet now resembled wet, green spaghetti, and he struggled, his feet sinking into the mud while his glasses were rendered almost imperturbable by the rain. He almost made it across to the copse of trees on the forest edge when he saw him.
If the lenses of his glasses weren't so wet with rain he might have noticed the shattered look in Draco's eyes. He might have had time to raise his wand, if his arms weren't so weighted down by his wet robes. As it were he was so happy to see Draco that he called out his name.
He didn't hear Draco telling him to run.
~*~
It's morning, and Harry awakes on blue cotton sheets. He's alone, and for the length of time it takes him to peel open his eyes, he's terrified. But then he remembers.
"Do you remember that promise I made you?"
"Promise? Do you make promises?"
"The one in the cell during the war."
"I'd forgotten."
"Morning."
Harry turns his head slowly as Draco steps into focus. He's carrying something steaming in his hand, and the air is suffused with the scent of hot coffee and cut flowers. "Morning," Harry returns, smiling.
"What?" Draco sounds nervous as he sits down on the bed, clutching his coffee cup to his chest.
Harry's fingers brush against Draco's thigh, feeling warm skin as he traces a scar that runs along its length. There are cages you can lock yourself in even if you are free, he thinks. He catches Draco's eyes and carefully removes the cup from his hands.
"I remembered," he says.
coffeejunkii asked me why I chose this story, and why I remixed it this way. I chose this story because it is one of my favorites. It just moved me and I found myself going back and rereading it again and again. One of the things that struck me about this fic is that we don't get any backstory as to how they ended up sharing a prison cell together and we know very little of their prior relationship, other than when Draco promises, “When we get out of this, I promise to shag you all night.” and Harry replies, saying, “But… we don’t even have sex at all yet. You want our first time to be an all-nighter?” The fanfic writer inside me immediately wanted to fill in the blanks.
As far as the summer imagery goes, that was just a result of a particularly hot and uncomfortable July night.