Notes:
My response to the fic challenge. Tons of thanks to Plumeria and one of the featured authors of the month, Amalin, for impromptu betaing!
From the top of the hill you have a glorious view of the park and the
lake. The manor house itself is hidden among the trees, invisible
except for the southwest corner of the roof. It's a good place to
come to think. You can stand there with the wind in your hair, gently
ruffled if there's just a breeze, flung in your face and your eyes if
the wind is strong. You can watch the lake, still and calm like a
mirror under the blue sky, or stern and grey as lead, rippled by a
myriad of angry little waves. You are surrounded by rolling hills
that are naked and dreary in winter, veiled in tender green in
spring, leafy and lush in summer, clad in fiery red and gold in the
autumn.
It's autumn again now. I inhale the smell of earth and rotting
leaves, the smell of decay, the smell of death. The air is clear and
sharp, the sun warms my face while the wind chills my back. I gather
my cloak tighter around me and let my eyes sweep over the hills, the
roofs down in the village, the October trees shifting in all hues of
green and orange, red and gold.
Red and gold.
I look at the trees, but see only my memories.
Red and gold.
I used to come here sometimes as a child, less frequently as a
teenager. Then, for several years, I forgot that the place existed.
That's what the war did to us. We fought it, and we fought it for all
the right reasons. But it made us lose sight of the very things we
fought for. In the end, our eyes were blind to everything but evil;
we saw nothing but darkness and treason and blood and death.
I'm twenty-five now. But age is just a number. Most days I feel older
than the earth under my feet.
My eyes take in the beauty of the autumn leaves, trees like torches,
flaming against the newly washed blue of the sky. There isn't a
single cloud.
I take a look at my life. For someone looking in from the outside,
there won't appear to be a single cloud there, either.
I'm still young (at least that's what my age, that mendacious,
unreliable number, tells me). I've been blessed with wealth and looks
and brains. I have a good job and a beautiful home.
Yes, it's beautiful. Polished wood, exquisite fabrics, comfortable
armchairs by the fireplace. Big windows facing the park, letting the
bright sunshine in. But who is there to run a finger over the shiny
wood, who is there to open the heavy curtains in the morning and
smile at the new day, who is there to share the warmth of the fire,
play chess, have a glass of wine, discuss the events of the day? Who
is there to clutter up the big empty spaces, to cake the carpets with
mud from heavy boots, to fill the sink with dirty dishes?
My home is beautiful, but it lacks the very essence of a home. There
is no one to share it with. My agenda is full, there are journeys and
meetings. My rooms are filled with valuable belongings. But my heart
is empty; empty except for those flashes of red and gold.
* * *
"Drake, darling," she says across the restaurant table, a long
manicured nail flicking the crystal goblet in front of her. "I don't
want to be nosy. And you know I never gossip. But... rumour has it
that you are seeing someone...?"
Oh, Pansy *darling*, of course I know you never gossip.
Do you believe your little statements yourself? Do you really think I
believe them? Or is the whole point that we both know it's a lie?
I answer her with the perfect smile. It's so small it's almost no
smile at all. It just leaves her wondering whether she saw a shadow
of it at the corners of my mouth or not, and what it means if she did.
Pansy has always desired me. She desires me even now; I can see it
from the way her eyes linger on my lips. She regards me as her
rightful possession, unjustly withheld from her. She is married now,
she is a mother and pregnant with her second child, but she still
desires me. In her world, I belong to her. And she has never quite
forgiven me for never proposing to her. Or for never kissing her on
the mouth, even when we were dating. I kissed her face, her ears, her
neck, her shoulders, but never her mouth. I became an expert at
gracefully avoiding her attempts to touch my lips with her own. She
never said a word about it, but I saw her puzzlement grow with every
evasive manoeuvre, I saw it change into anger and hurt. I think she
still wants to settle that account, and I'm on my guard every second
I'm with her. I haven't stopped expecting an attack. But only one
person has ever kissed me on the mouth, and that's how I want it to
stay.
I look down into my wine glass. The candle flame throws a glowing,
ruby reflection through the liquid on to the golden oak surface of
the table.
A vivid flash of red and gold through my mind.
Am I seeing someone? No, darling Pansy. When I need to touch skin,
when I need someone to touch mine, I find someone to provide it. But
I never have sex with the same partner twice. I never look at them. I
don't see them. And there's no need for you to be jealous, dear
Pansy, because I never kiss them, either.
* * *
That night I have the dream again. I dream of a body pressed against
mine, of the corner of a Quidditch robe, red and gold, thrown around
my shoulders, like a protective wing. Of warm breath against my
cheek, a muffled laugh in my ear, my own body responding – not
daring to respond but still responding. Of lips moving across my cheek to
meet mine, covering my mouth with warmth, and of me trembling as my
arms reach around his waist to have more of him. He laughs softly,
the sound vibrating against my lips. He wants me. And, oh god, I want
him. I am a Malfoy and nothing ever throws me off balance, but here I
am, shaking, wanting, desiring, and unable to hide it. My nerves sing
with the sweetest tension I have ever felt, and my mind dissolves in
confusion. I cease to even attempt to understand what's happening. I
just close my eyes and let my body melt into his. Lips parting, his
tongue in my mouth. All I hear now is breathing, mine, his, and deep
in his throat something that could be a groan. My hands smooth the
bare skin of his back. I hadn't noticed that they had slipped under
his jumper. My tongue in his mouth. I wonder why it makes me want to
faint with desire. I have never felt anything like it. How is it
possible to want someone so badly? Someone you have spent years of
your life taunting, plaguing, avoiding? How is it possible that he
wants me?
The dream speeds up. Clothes fall. Red and gold, green and silver,
they all mix in a heap. When they are off, we are still different,
but we're also the same. The colours that identify us as adversaries,
opponents, antagonists, have been shed, and now there is only skin,
our naked bodies, my arms so white against his tan, bare skin
shivering in cold air, under urgent hands, smoothed under hot palms.
The pace quickens as we rub and thrust, squeeze and caress, lick and
bite and suck, push and gasp, and finally cry out. And on the note of
that cry I wake up, my hands scrabbling across empty sheets in search
of warm skin, searching to receive those hot spurts of ecstasy.
There are tears on my face, and the cries linger in my ears. They
keep ringing in my head throughout the day.
* * *
The dream is a memory, a repeating script that cannot be erased.
It can't be erased, so what I have to do is try to bury the cries
under a rubble of noise, lay other pictures over the painful ones of
skin and hair and laughing eyes, of red and gold mixing with green
and silver.
I work. I am good at my job. No one is as dedicated as I am. And no
one suspects the real reason for my dedication. They have no idea
that it's only there to blot out something else.
Someone else.
I shy away from it. But the naked fact is that he is missing. And has
been for over a year now.
There is a Special Team of Aurors looking for him, but they have had
no luck so far. None at all. Nothing.
We're still in the aftershocks of war. We're cleaning up and sorting
out, filtering through the debris that the war has left scattered
across the wizarding world. I had never imagined the extent of human
suffering and misery that I would witness. My imagination couldn't
grasp the unbelievable cruelty human beings are capable of. When it
comes to pain and destruction, there are no limits to human
inventiveness. It's an ironic contrast to our helplessness when we
try to find treatments, to find effective ways to heal and restore.
We have already opened two trauma centres, and today we are opening
the third one, in a wing building at St Mungo's. I attend the first
morning meeting as a Ministry representative, and I'm impressed by
the dedication of the staff. This is where the most difficult cases
will be sent, the ones where there is practically no hope. I look at
the focused faces around me and hope that these skilled witches and
wizards will be able to cope.
When we get up from the table and I'm getting ready to leave, the
head of the new centre comes up to me. I remember her from Hogwarts;
a Ravenclaw girl a few years older than myself. She has a quietly
efficient air about her.
"Mr Malfoy," she says in a low voice. "I have news for you. News
about Harry Potter."
I crumble. She watches me crumble. She sees my hands begin to shake,
she sees me steady myself against the table, she sees all colour
leave my face and she hears me try to speak only to realise I've
forgotten how to do it.
"The Special Team has found him," she says quietly. "He is alive. I
don't know exactly what his condition is, but I've been told it's bad
and he will need extensive treatment, physical and mental. Arthur
Weasley told me it was so bad a permanent memory charm might be the
only possible solution."
She takes the coffee mug from my hand. There are only a few drops
left at the bottom, but I'm shaking so violently it sends them
splashing over the rim.
"Are you all right?"
I nod, I manage to gather up my cloak, stand up, clear my throat.
"Please keep me informed of any development," I say to her, my voice
like a rough bark. "I want to know where you place him, what
treatment he receives, any progress."
Gravel crunches under my feet as I cross the yard, the sound too
loud, shredding my nerves. Red leaves come floating down from the
trees overhead, landing on the grey gravel like bright drops of blood.
* * *
I'm standing on the hill again, watching the glorious autumn leaves.
I see the Gryffindor colours mixed with the Slytherin ones, just like
that time, just like my dream. Like it was. Like it could have been
again and again, if there had been no Voldemort, no Death Eaters, no
evil, no war.
If. How I hate that futile word.
I have just had word from St Mungo's that Harry is better. He has
spoken. He has spoken of *me*. And I have come here to try to gather
up courage to go and see him.
* * *
I stop in the doorway.
Thank heavens he is not in bed. He sits in a chair by the window, a
blanket tucked around him, his face turned towards the light, hands
held still in his lap. He hasn't turned around at the sound of my
steps.
"Harry."
It's only a whisper but he slowly turns his head. I crumble again,
I'm drowning in waves of cold and heat, I have to fight an urge to
run out of the room. Fear and pain roll and echo inside my head like
screams, and I want to throw up.
His face is just paper-thin, near-transparent skin stretched over a
skull. His eyes are bottomless, dark and empty. I'm seized by fury, a
hatred so strong it terrifies me. If I can't break something this
second, *I* will break. I lift my hand and the spell emerges from my
mouth in a venomous, snake-like hiss . The mirror on the wall
shatters; millions of shards and splinters spread over the floor in a
sharply glittering cascade. They crunch under my feet as I cross the
room. I pick one of them up, squeeze it in my hand until blood seeps
out between my finger, using the pain as a focusing point to stop
myself from disintegrating.
Harry winces but doesn't make a sound. I fall on my knees in front of
him, as if in prayer or worship, or, absurdly, as if I'm going to
propose. I rest my forehead against his knee, and after a very long
moment I feel his hands in my hair.
Red and gold streaks through my mind. Red and gold, silver and green,
mixing like the autumn colours outside the window.
Harry takes my hand, opens up my clenched fingers and releases the
shard of glass. It drops to the floor with a tinkle. I hear a
whispered spell and my palm is washed with a quick wave of warmth as
the wound heals. I marvel at his strength, I marvel at his presence
of mind. After a year of torture, he is more composed than I am.
I feel his body warmth through the blanket, and his fingers are
slowly combing through my hair, again and again, as if he's trying to
caress my thoughts.
The blood that has dripped from my hand is drying on the floor.
Outside the window, bright red leaves float and dance from the trees
to land on the gravel.
Winter will come and we will rest in white stillness. The snow will
cover our bleeding wounds. They will heal, and in the spring we will
re-emerge, naked and new and shivering.
I have to believe this.
I have to believe that autumn is not all about dying.
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