Harry Potter - the wall
HP - The Wall
"love breaks down walls."
*
“Thank you for opening this up to us,” Potter said. The Auror’s wand was held confidently in his right hand. He stood beside his former classmate, Draco, who was seated, elbow on the armrest and chin in his hand. The ever present sneer had left the Slytherin graduate’s face. It had been replaced by a sardonic smirk which, although devoid of the sneer’s overt hostility, was no less dangerous for those on the other side of it.
Draco peered down the stairs. “Oh, the Ministry’d have bungled their way in sooner or later. Best it was while I could supervise.” The trap door lay open upon the rolled carpet. The drawing room furniture had been pushed into the bookcases on the far wall. “What are you doing up here? I thought you’d be the first one down.”
Potter looked at Draco. “You knew I’d stay up with you.”
Draco smiled mysteriously. “A man’s entitled to his own opinions,” was his only concession.
A scream from the torch-lit room below tore through the comfortable silence that stretched between the two men.
“What was that?” Potter fairly shouted. His voice accused Draco of all manner of things, murder the least of them.
Draco’s smirked. “Seems like somebody stepped on the Sorcerer’s Toes.”
An Auror with dark blond hair came dashing up the stairs wailing in terror. His hands slapped along his body as if swatting at tiny creatures. His anguished screams got further and further away, echoing strangely in the large house as the man twisted and turned through the map in Draco’s mind. He heard the front door open and saw the man dashing toward the road. Draco snorted.
Potter was livid. “What was that?” he shouted. “What happened down there?”
“Mergin stepped on the Sorcerer’s Toes!” came another voice from below. “I thought these had all disappeared after the Goblin Wars! It’s amazing, Potter! You’ve got to see this!”
Draco chuckled. Potter’s anger grew. “Why,” he began down the steps, “Didn’t. You. Help. Him.”
“Oh. Er…” The second Auror sounded flummoxed, sheepish. Draco couldn’t make out the rest.
Potter returned. “Malfoy, you’re leading.”
“You seriously can’t expect me to go down there!” Draco protested. “Look at me!” Here his voice took on a bitter quality. He motioned to the chair on which he sat, useless legs bent at the knee and sitting nervelessly on footrests. “What do you plan to do, carry me?”
There was a flash of uncertainty, but it was quickly swallowed by Potter’s resolve. “If I have to,” he said.
“This isn’t a war,” Draco growled.
“No. It’s not.”
They glared at one another. Draco looked away first. “Fine.” He pushed a button on the wheelchair. It rose a few inches off the ground. “Move,” he ordered Potter, and pushed the lever that steered the chair forward. Potter barely got out of the way before Draco was making his careful way down the steep stair, bumping the sides on occasion and swearing at the scratching metal. He landed abruptly, chair jarring at the bottom. “Wanker,” he muttered, pushing the button again and driving forward. He kept the chair at a hover, mindful of the Sorcerer’s Toes.
The chamber was dark, the paths to the torches along the walls too dangerous to make the necessary journeys. The room was cluttered with shadowed objects filled to the brim with Dark magic: hands creeping up from pedestals, eyes in jars, feet encased in gold. Black wood carvings infused with blacker powers twisted up from shelves and from the floor.
“This place,” Potter murmured behind him.
“You’ve seen worse,” Draco said. Perhaps it was to be contrary, but perhaps it was only the truth. “I don’t need to tell you not to touch anything…and watch your step.”
“Oh!” he heard behind him. Potter’d found the Sorcerer’s Toes, no doubt.
“Jackson!” Potter scolded a bit later. Fool must have been about to touch something.
They had trekked almost to the end of the long chamber-it went as far back as the west wing of the Manor-when Draco suddenly stopped.
“Keep going,” Potter ordered.
“Can’t,” Draco ground out.
“Why not?”
“I bloody can’t, alright?” He motioned savagely to the chair in which he sat.
It was then Potter noticed the wheels, too wide to fit between the final shelves barring the way. Potter wondered if he should move them, but decided against it. “Jackson, you go ahead. Malfoy, come back a bit.”
With a bit of shuffling, a dangerous moment when the wheel bumped one of the shelves, and Draco’s accusation of sexual assault of an invalid when Jackson sat in his lap while climbing over, the switch was made.
“Blimey,” Jackson said, walking into the only bare section of the room. “Why do you suppose this bit’s empty? Ran out of money, did th-”
Suddenly there was another wall, and Jackson was trapped on the other side of it. Muffled beating and shouts could be heard from the newly appeared wall, upon which were posed pictures of Malfoy relatives, most of whom Draco had never seen before.
“Well,” Draco said. “I’d hoped that wasn’t what this was.”
Potter maneuvered around Draco with all the trouble of Jackson, but without the witty commentary. “Potter,” was the complaint instead.
“My man is trapped behind that wall, and you’d bloody well get him out, Malfoy!” Potter shouted. He gestured madly with his wand at the far wall.
“Careful with that thing,” Draco said, slowly withdrawing his own wand from a fold in his left trouser leg. “You know what happens when wizards get angry.”
“Angry? I’m going to kill you if you don’t get him out of there!”
The banging on the wall continued. A painting of Narcissa Malfoy shuddered. “Who’s making that racket?” she asked, and crossed over into a different painting. “That’s better.”
Draco smiled. “Hello, mum,” he said, ignoring Potter’s empty threat.
“Hello darling!” she waved daintily. “Come talk to me!”
Draco couldn’t, of course. There was a twinge in his chest, but it passed quickly. “Kiss me,” he said instead to Potter.
“What?” Potter was livid. His face was cherry red.
“Kiss me,” Draco said again. “It’s the only way to get him out. If you want him out, that is.”
“You’re lying!”
“I’m not.” The smirk was back now, teasing, daring. “What-don’t you believe me?”
“Why should I b-Malfoy!” After a frantic period of looking at everything and seeing nothing, of frenetic movement of head and hands, Potter slumped. “Draco,” he pleaded.
“Harry,” Draco whined mockingly. “Kiss me,” he said again.
Potter sighed. “Fine,” he said. “But you’d better not be lying.” There was little power in this threat, and they both knew it.
The Auror leaned over Draco, bracing his hands on the arms of the chair. Draco dropped his wand into his lap. He slid his hands over Potter’s neck and into his hair, guiding him. They kissed softly, once, again.
When Potter’s eyes fluttered open, Draco was smiling at him. Behind them, the wall crumbled. Neither turned to look.