Author: Antenora
(antenora@cox.net)
Rating: R.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers
including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made
and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Notes: This fic was written in response to the challenge issued by Aja on her Armchair List.
As you can tell from the first section, this is a death-fic, though not in the most supreme angst tradition.
*shrugs* Oh, I'm no good at this descriptive stuff. It's slash. It's H/D. And it's pretty damn weird to boot.
There's death and a bit of rampant darkness running amuck through the entire bloody piece.
And I've cast it with a big R-rating just so y'all know. There. I've warned you. I feel better now. ^^;;
It was tradition.
That was what his father had told him
after the first blood had been spilt, after the first pain had been
drawn from his tender flesh in the intricate patterns of the ritual.
A rite of passage which must be observed
in order for the son to pass to manhood.
And he stood silently beneath the blade
of the knife and the whisper of the incantation and screamed the protest
of this act within his eyes and mind. He held himself still by force of
will alone even as ever fiber of his being screamed for him to run, to
flee this place and this man and this terrible tradition that seemed to
pour darkness into the most secret depths of his soul.
But he stayed still and did not utter a
word, as was expected, and waited for an end.
And when it was over, his father drew the
knife from his chest and seemed to smile at his handiwork. "There now.
That wasn't so bad was it? Just a little pain and it's all over. I'm
proud of you. You've done so well."
So well... as if it was all a test, and
perhaps it was. A test of will, if of nothing else, that he should
stand there and allow his father, his father who he loved and worshiped
and who had never ever caused him pain, to carve these marks into his
chest and whisper pain across his skin and thrust darkness into his
soul.
It seemed, too late, that he finally
realized why these arts were called dark. Perhaps that was what his
father meant when he had described this as a rite of passage. The
drawing away of the velvet curtain which had previously concealed the
truth he had never wished to see. And seeing this truth with his eyes
wide, he could no longer hold to the notions of his childhood. No
longer think of his father as just and good. No longer think of himself
as just and good. They were dark wizards, wizards born and bred of the
darkness, and they could be nothing else.
And it was summer.
And something died.
And it was Harry Potter.
*****
Harry Potter.
He knocked on the window, knowing already
that only rejection would greet him. Potter would see the darkness in
his soul, the rites of passage carved into his pale chest and turn him
away. Or turn him in. Have him shut up in Azkaban or St. Mungo's or in
deep, rich darkness below the earth where he surely belonged. He
knocked harder at the window, half-afraid that he'd picked the wrong one
and that some Muggle would open the window and find him crouched on the
sill, shivering and bleeding and so very, very cold. There seemed an
unnatural chill in the air, too cold for summer, it felt almost like
autumn. But, then again, he thought that perhaps that chill was
probably just in his mind.
There was a flicker of light, a candle
leaping to life within the room and then Harry Potter's familiar
bespeckled face appeared in the window, glaring out at him blearily. It
seemed it took a moment for recognition to dawn and he could see when it
did. See it in the widening of the dark eyes behind those glasses and
feel it in the way his own body tensed in response, expecting the
rejection. It would come now. Harry Potter would turn away and return
to his bed and he would be left alone to the darkness once more. And...
"Malfoy?" Harry asked softly, shoving
the window up, before reaching out to practically yank Draco off the
sill and into the surprisingly warm room beyond. His broom hovered
still beyond the window and Harry brought that inside as well, setting
it against the wall before closing the window and turning his attention
to where Draco stood just where he'd left him. "Malfoy? What... shite...
sit down on the bed, I'll go find... something. Shite. I'll go find
some bandages or... or something," Harry murmured distractedly, pushing
Draco down on the bed before disappearing from the room.
Draco sat in stunned silence on the edge
of Harry Potter's bed, in Harry Potter's house, and tried to figure out
how he'd come to be here. How he'd known just where to find this boy or
why he'd even come here in the first place and he could not find any
answers, only more questions. Then Harry was back, with a towel and
glass of water and he was frowning and shaking his head. "This won't
do. Come with me."
And Harry Potter folded his warm fingers
around Draco's cold ones and led him to the bathroom. He sat him down
on the toilet and closed and locked the door before turning on the
light. "What happened to you?" He asked softly as he drenched a cloth
with water and knelt before him, pressing the cloth to the open wound on
Draco's chest.
Draco stared at him for a long moment,
watching the tentative, almost frightened way Harry touched the cloth to
his chest. So different from the sure, easy strokes of the man who'd
opened the wounds that Harry was trying to heal. He stared as if
hypnotized and leaned back against the wall behind him, so that he could
still watch Harry's hands and see the boy himself at the same time.
"Summer. Summer happened to me," he murmured finally, but his voice
sounded like the voice of a stranger. Harsh with pain and almost faint,
as if this stranger who'd spoken hadn't had to speak in a very long time
and maybe he hadn't.
Harry paused, his hand stilling against
Draco's bloody chest, and Draco tensed. He was suddenly afraid that
that stranger who'd spoken in his place had said something wrong and
that he would be thrown out the nearest window before he had a chance to
tell Harry that nothing had changed. That he was still Draco Malfoy and
wasn't that fine? Of course, just being Draco Malfoy would probably get
him thrown out the window as well.
But then Harry's hand was moving again,
wiping blood from his chest in those same cautious strokes and Draco
felt himself relaxing once more under that careful touch.
"Summer?" Harry questioned softly,
standing to rinse the cloth in the sink before dropping down before him
once more and continuing the slow, laborious work of clearing blood from
Draco's bare chest.
"Summer," the stranger's voice
confirmed.
"Okay," Harry replied, continuing his
ministrations in silence.
Draco was not certain when he fell
asleep, but when he next opened his eyes he found himself staring up at
an unfamiliar ceiling and lying in an unfamiliar bed. He panicked,
rocketing into a sitting position and letting out a sharp cry.
Harry was there at his side in an
instant, laying a hand against his arm, coaxing him back down against
the pillows and the cool sheets. And he was catching hold of Harry's
shoulders before he could stop himself and pulling Harry down into the
bed with him. "I'm so cold," Draco heard the stranger's voice whisper
and his arms trembled as they wrapped themselves around Harry's slim
shoulders and drew him close. A part of his brain marveled at the ease
with which Harry submitted to his silent demand, allowing himself to
pulled down into the squeaking, creaking bed without so much as a
whisper of protest.
"Malfoy?" Harry questioned, once Draco
had settled down again, peaceful now that Harry's warm body was lying
against him.
"Hm?" Draco responded sleepily, amazed
to find that his voice was his own once more.
"Can you... can you tell me what happened
to you?"
"Summer. Summer happened to me," Draco
whispered.
And they kissed in the darkness, the
briefest touch of lips, and Harry's fingers tangled in his hair.
And Draco slept.
And while he slept his father crept into
the room and whispered the words that sent Harry Potter to his grave.
Avada Kedavra.
*****
The sun was shining too brightly when Draco awoke again with Harry
Potter's t-shirt clad body tucked against him. The night had passed
while he slept and he would have thought its events a terrible dream if
not for the living proof sleeping at his side, and the very Muggle room
surrounding him. When he shifted and sat up, Harry was staring at him
with green eyes which seemed all the more vivid and real in the early
morning light.
"Hey," Harry murmured cautiously,
squinting up at Draco from a face which looked a bit strange without the
glasses he was used to seeing upon it.
"Hey," Draco responded, his voice equally
soft as he took in the bags beneath Potter's green eyes that only looked
deeper and blacker when he squinted and the hair which was more tangled
and unruly then he'd ever seen it. "You look like hell."
"You're one to talk," Harry replied,
groping the nightstand for his glasses and thrusting the frames on his
face once he found them. "At least those wounds closed up."
Draco glanced down at his chest and
raised a hand to touch the scars there. They glistened, the pale and
shiny pink of newly formed skin. The scars were slick to the touch,
almost smooth, but he could almost feel the deep rivets they'd cut in
his soul and he dropped his hand immediately, as if the skin had burned
him. He glanced up to find Harry staring at him with a gaze that was
curiously devoid of emotion. "What?" He hissed, his voice sharper then
he'd meant it to be.
"What happened to you?"
"How many times are you going to ask that
question before excepting the answer I give, Potter? Fifty? A
thousand? Summer happened to me."
"That doesn't tell me anything."
"It would if you were listening."
And they sat in silence as Harry mulled
over the words and Draco himself realized that he didn't really
understand them either.
All he knew was that they were true.
And that they were the only answer he had
to give.
And as they sat together on Harry's bed,
contemplating the meaning of these words, the Dursleys began to rise for
the day.
It was strange to see how the boy who
lived lived outside the sheltered realm of Hogwarts. How he lived in
this house of Muggles and was treated with such obvious disdain by these
filthy beasts who shared his blood. Draco found that he wanted very
badly to hurt them. To bring the darkness to bear against them until
Harry would interfere and save them, as he inevitably would, because he
was so good. And, perhaps, if they saw how good, they would
understand what he was just beginning to understand.
That the goodness of this boy had no
fucking limits.
Of course, that was probably what he
hated most about Harry Potter at this particular moment.
Because Harry Potter should have sent him
away, if not last night, then at least this morning or this afternoon or
this evening. But Harry Potter had not sent him away and so he'd
stayed. He'd spent most of the day trying his damnedest to find Harry's
breaking point. To find that moment when Harry would decide that enough
was enough and finally tell him to take a flying leap from the nearest
window. But every time he'd thought himself close, Harry would simply
sigh, shake his head, and smile. That was the part that Draco
understood the least. He'd make comments about Harry's friends, Harry's
family, Dumbledore, Muggles, Mudbloods, the condition of Harry's room,
and all Harry would do was smile.
And he was beginning to like that smile.
And now the light was fading from the sky
and he was curled up in Harry's bed with the blankets pulled up around
his head as if it were deepest winter rather than an abnormally hot
summer and Harry was leaning his back against the bed with a thick book
propped on his knees, making notes in the margins with his quill. When
the darkness had fallen completely, Harry lit a lamp on his nightstand
and continued to read in silence.
"Potter?" Draco inquired finally, his
voice sounding terribly weak.
"Malfoy?" Harry replied, his quill
stilling mid-stroke.
"Will you... shite... I mean..."
Harry shut the book with a quiet snap and
set it aside, dropping his quill on top of it and pushing himself up.
He turned out the lamp and Draco could hear the rustling of cloth as
Harry's silhouetted figure discarded its t-shirt and jeans and crossed
the room, digging a pair of pajama bottoms from the dresser and donning
them before returning to the bed and slipping in beside him. Draco
sighed and draped an arm across Harry, pulling him closer until their
bare chests touched. He thought Harry gasped, but he couldn't be sure.
Draco wasn't sure if the first move was
when Harry's hand had come to rest on his thigh, coaxing him closer, or
if it had been the first push of his hips against Harry's.
The first touch of his lips against
Harry's collarbone.
The first touch of Harry's lips against
his throat.
Everything had been so fluid, seamless,
as if it were some terrible, wonderful dance.
Harry's bitten nails digging into his
shoulder blades, his own carefully clipped nails digging into Harry's
hip.
Harry's breathing, suddenly erratic,
almost panicked against his face. His own heartbeat so painfully loud
in his ears. They didn't speak, as if words might break the spell. The
spell that made this seem so much like a dream and thus made it
possible.
Because in a dream, you could do as you
liked.
In a dream, it didn't matter that it was
another boy touching you or kissing you or marking the hollow of your
throat with a bruise you would end up wearing as a temporary remembrance
of this brief encounter.
It didn't matter how much the rest of the
world would hate you if they knew.
How much your father would hate you.
And so Draco did not speak as thrust his
hand between their writhing bodies, awkwardly shoving his boxers down
over his hips and struggling out of them as he felt Harry doing much the
same with his pajama pants. And then they were both naked and tangled
around each other once more.
It was awkward and strange, as they
groped each other, trying to find the right places to touch and stroke
and pull in order to find the pleasure they were both seeking.
Then things seemed to shift.
Change.
And everything was fluid once more, as if
they'd done this a thousand times and Draco knew just where to touch
Harry. He knew that if he licked that spot just behind Harry's ear that
Harry would moan. He knew that Harry liked it best when he was on top
and it seemed they'd actually sat down and discussed such things in
detail, because he knew.
Just knew.
And when they came together Draco didn't
mind the cold in the air, because all he could think of was Harry.
And all he could hear was his name, a
whispered sigh on Harry's lips.
"Draco."
And he smiled.
And then he slept.
And while he slept, Voldemort crept into
the room and whispered the words which sent Harry Potter to his grave.
Avada Kedavra.
*****
Another morning.
Bright sunlight glinted through the
window and touched his shuttered eyes and Harry was already awake,
tromping about the room loudly. Draco opened his eyes to peer at the
boy and Harry grinned at him.
"Finally awake?"
"No," Draco replied, turning and burying
his face in the pillow. It seemed so stupid to deny it, but he wanted
to sleep a bit more. But he couldn't sleep without Harry tucked against
him and so he reluctantly relinquished the bed. He sat up and ran a
hand through his sleep-tousled hair and glared at Harry's back as the
boy went about piling books in the corner. The sunlight was bright and
for the first time in what seemed like a long time, Draco really felt
its warmth. "Are you okay with... I mean..." Draco frowned, unable to
form the words.
"I love you, Draco." Harry commented
suddenly, casting a glance back over his shoulder at where Draco sat.
And Draco felt the wand in his hand and
knew that it was wrong for someone like Harry to say such words to
someone like him.
And so he whispered the words that sent
Harry Potter to his grave.
Avada Kedavra.
And it was better that way.
*****
And the curse was uttered by his father.
And the curse was uttered by the Dark
Lord.
And the curse slipped from his own lips.
And Harry died.
Again.
And again.
And again.
And Draco suddenly understood that this
wasn't real.
It was just another rite of passage.
And the summer would never end, because
it had never truly begun.
It was autumn and the leaves were
falling.
And Harry was kissing him.
It was winter and the trees were dead.
And they lay tangled together in a heap
of sweat-soaked limps.
It was spring and the trees were reborn
in a burst of color and life.
And Harry was beside him.
And he was dying again.
Only it wasn't Harry who died at all.
Because he had been the one to take the
curse.
To stare into that unending green which
was not so different from the color of Harry's eyes.
And he'd done it to protect him.
Because Harry had whispered a curse upon
him that struck truer and deeper than any other.
'I love you.'
Avada Kedavra.
It was summer and there was blood on his
lips.
It was autumn and there were fingers
tangled in his hair.
It was winter and there was a moan and
his name whispered in the dark.
It was spring and a single fleeting kiss
touched his cold, dead lips.
Like a breath...
Like a dream...
And he awoke.
And his father was sitting at his
bedside.
And his chest ached.
And his soul felt empty.
And something had died.
And he thought, just maybe, that it had
been him all along.
~ fin ~
Boy, I have no idea what to say about this one. Absolutely no
clue. Ended up kind of freaky, even by my standards. I'm not quite sure how
that happened. ^^;; Anyway, this fic shall be blamed on my on-going obsession
with the Unforgivable Curses and, of course, on Aja for issuing this challenge
in the first place. -_-
REVIEW!
Back to Fanfiction :: Back to Seasonal
Challenge :: Back to Armchair Main.
