Title: Fall
Author: Nope Jr
(nopejr@nopespace.com)
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.
There's shouting; something falls, distant, hollow, dead.
Draco waits alone. In the forest. It's bright. Sits with his back to
a tree on an easy slope. Eyes are closed. Autumn change, all around;
summer dripping into winter; unstable forest. Red leaves, and gold,
orange and brown. Black robes, edged in green. Wind stirs. Blond
strands, hanging down to his eyes. Closed eyes. The wind is cool,
fresh. He waits.
Footsteps.
"Malfoy! You're--!" and, urgent, of course, always urgent, "Where's
Harry?"
"Mudblood," he names her; eyes still closed.
"Minion," she snaps back; old game; and, stone in her voice, asks
again. "Where's Harry?"
He shakes his head, says nothing; a catch of breath; her footsteps
scurry away into the crackling leaves.
Draco waits alone.
The trees whisper about him. Faintly, he can hear crackling. The
orchards are burning. Mother won't be happy. Leaves fall about him,
curl against his hair. Wood smoke. He thinks of bonfires, of
Halloween, of tradition; and of, once, long ago, walking along the
banks of the Seine, the first autumn rain in his hair, and Father
holding his hand. He thinks of chess. He thinks of servants, and dark
places, masks and skulls and snakes and crimson eyes, hawks and owls.
He thinks of autumn.
He thinks of Harry. Eventually, Harry.
Moments fall between the leaves. Rain and broomsticks. Ice and heat,
lust and passion, recriminations and communion. Touches that burn in
absence. Ownership marked with fingertips. Something soft. Something
hard. Something slow. Something fast. Something else, something deep,
some unstable equilibrium so unlikely that it holds; a glorious
impossibility; feels like falling in every direction at once.
Feels like destiny.
But he is a Malfoy, and he will be a slave to no man, for no reason.
Sorry, Harry. Sorry, Father. Sorry, Mother. Sorry, Professor. Sorry,
Vincent, Gregory, Pansy, Blaise, Millicent... All the falling leaves.
Sorry, sorry, sorry. But he is a Malfoy; he never apologizes, of
course, never explains. Let them think want they want. Let them say
who he betrayed, who he denied, who he defended. Let them speak.
Truth and lies; neither matter. He is the Malfoy. Lord of the manor,
slow burning behind him. No more line after this; no more spares; no
more pawns; no more games.
Your move, Tom. Your move, Albus. Your move. Draco is done.
Draco is--
Footsteps.
"You bastard, Malfoy."
He sighs. "The ginger tosser."
Angry: "What did you say to Hermione?"
"Mudblood," repeats Draco, soft, to himself; then, louder: "Nothing."
"She thought Harry was-- Why are you just *sitting* there?"
"Why not, Weasel?" His voice is dull; he bores himself.
The wind whispers in the tree tops, showers them in autumn debris;
the trees will be empty soon, skeletons. Draco waits. Go away,
Weasel. Sod off home, poor boy.
Weasley says, "I could kill you now, you know."
"Yes."
"All the people you've hurt, I *should* kill you."
"Yes."
Silence, unexpected, hurts.
Draco, with faint annoyance: "Muggle got your tongue?"
Weasley, with reluctance: "Harry's-- he's looking for you."
"Is he?"
"What?" Loud; too loud; Draco frowns. Weasley, insistent, "Of course
he is! You know he is, Malfoy! You--" A sharp exhale; slow breaths;
cautiously "...your father's dead."
"Mm." Without inflection.
"Did you--" Swallows, attempts "Dra--"
"Don't."
"Damn it, Malfoy! Would you just--"
Somewhere close: an explosion; the ground trembles, rises and falls
below them. So long fireplace, thinks Draco. So long bookcase. So
long bed. So long, so long.
Weasley looks away, nervous; distant smoke; and back, as if no pause,
trying: "Could you, for once, not--"
"No," says Draco, calm. "I couldn't."
"I try to be nice--" that more to Weasley's own self than anyone
listening-- "for Harry's sake, but you, you always..." Louder. "You
don't deserve it, Malfoy. You don't deserve him."
Draco chuckles at that.
The oddness of the sound has unsettled Weasley; Draco can hear it in
his voice. "I should, I'm going to find Harry--"
"Don't."
"He's frantic--"
"Weasley."
"But-- Damn it, Malfoy, would you look at me? I can't talk to you
like--"
Draco opens his eyes.
Weasley flinches as he meets the gaze, quickly looks away despite
himself. There's color in his cheeks to match his hair. The wand, in
Weasley's clammy fist, trembles. An apology in his stance. In the
distance, through the trees, flame light and smoke. They've torched
the manor; or tripped some trap; or Father's last act of defiance...
Father.
Draco asks, "Who found him?"
"Huh?"
"Who found my--"
"Oh. Um--"
"Black, I suppose. Or the werewolf."
"Yeah, Sirius. And, well--" Weasley shrugs, oddly apologetic "--I
did."
"Oh."
"We haven't found your mother. Harry was--" Weasley, pale, tries to
carry on regardless, muddles sentences. Muggles sentences. "Malfoy,
you didn't-- I mean, you couldn't have-- Not-- Did you--"
He falters against the steady grey.
Silence and the trees.
"I should get Harry." Weasley doesn't move.
Draco closes his eyes, leans back.
"Weasel."
"What?"
"In the library, where Father-- there was a game out."
"On the desk?"
"You remember."
"...yes."
"Finish the game."
A long silence, then: "White or black?"
"What do you think?"
A grunt. Silence.
Then "Queen's Knight to King's Pawn Three."
"King's Rook to--"
"He'll find us. Harry, I mean."
Yes. Harry. Eventually, inevitably, Harry.
"King's Rook to Queen's Bishop Five."
Weasley makes his move. Draco replies. Weasley plays the game. Draco
waits. Chess pieces, invisible, move silent on a board of air and
thought and memory. Sunlight, low and bright; tree shadows running
dark; leaves falling between them. Eyes closed. Weasley moves a
knight, takes a pawn. Red leaves, and gold, orange and brown. Autumn
tumbling. And Draco.
Draco waits.
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