Author: kbk (killedbykindness@hotmail.com)
Rating: PG. Romance/Angst.
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: um, hi. lurker. ficlet (1000 words exactly, by my count). not overtly
an answer to the challenge, but it wouldn't have happened if not for
this list. I'm a little leery of posting it, actually, because all
the stuff I've read here has been so awesome, and this is just,
y'know, a thing I wrote. but here it is anyway.
Draco wakes, wrapped in warmth, and stares uncomprehendingly at the
red curtain a foot from his nose. He feels as though he has emerged
from his first real sleep in the four months since the day he
orphaned himself. It is hardly his place to complain; Potter had
shown the signs of insomnia for all of the years between
Voldemort's return and his end, and according to all accounts
spent
the first fortnight after his victory collapsed in bed, succumbing to
the creeping exhaustion that left lines on his face and shadows under
his eyes, waking only to eat and correspond with friends. Draco does
not believe these stories, for if he even he is haunted by
the events of that day, how much more so the empathetic exemplary
Gryffindor hero?
His brain kicks in, eventually, informing Draco that the reason he
slept well is that he is not in his own bed. The curtains are the
wrong colour, for one, and for another, his bed does not contain a
warm hard body wrapped around his own foetal form. Obviously, there
is something that he ought to remember.
~flashback~
The night is young, and Harry takes advantage of a rare moment to
himself to take a walk in the grounds. Being the hero of the
"Second War Against Voldemort" has brought him kudos and
fame, but has
not excluded him from taking N.E.W.T.s with the rest of his year.
Still, he cannot bring himself to work as hard as those around him,
knowing as he does that his very name is more of a passport than his
exam results could ever be.
All around is green: the delicate leaf tints of spring shading into
the robust palette of summer in the trees and the plants, and
interspersed with silver in the scarf wrapped around the neck of the
figure seated on the ground. There are far fewer Slytherins at
Hogwarts now, especially in the upper years those old enough
(by inclination, if not by law) to fight. All in all, twenty-three
current students joined the roll of dead, only six of them from the
ranks of the Death Eaters, and not all of those from Slytherin
but fifteen more have been sent to Azkaban. Harry does not need to
get any closer to know that the boy in front of him is Draco Malfoy.
Harry sits next to him, leaving exactly three feet of clear space. He
doesn't bother with a greeting; his shell of serenity strong
enough and brittle enough that he neither needs nor dares to speak.
It only takes a few minutes for Malfoy to break. He looks up, and
asks, "What do you want, Potter?" Harry shrugs at him with a
feigned
pseudo-Zen calm. Draco huddles further into his robes, appearing a
black lump topped by an albino head the only colour the green
in his
scarf. After a suitable pause, Harry tells him, "It's not
that cold,
Malfoy." Pale eyes slant a scornful response, and they do not
talk for another few minutes.
Harry wonders, sitting there, if Malfoy is sitting vigil for his
mother, killed by her husband three days before the dramatic finale
of the fight. He has, of course, been keeping track waiting
anxiously for every landmark, expecting the vestiges of the enemy
force to rise again at any time, knowing that if he were one of them
he would deliberately attack on a day with no meaning; knowing that
followers such as they tend more towards overblown commemorative
action. He is smart enough not to ask if this is the case. But
thoughts of Narcissa lead to thoughts of Lucius and his death in
Harry's defence; this is what prompts him to speak.
"About your father
" Harry is cut off by Draco's frozen
glare. "He may have been a cold-hearted abusive bastard whom I
could
happily never have spoken to again," the blonde says in a tight
angry
voice, "but he was my father, and I cannot be glad of his
death."
Harry nods slightly, blinks and looks away, shrinking slightly from
Malfoy's anger. "I was going to say I was sorry," he
mutters with a
slightly chagrined tone. Draco regards him with an aloof eye, drawing
out the awkward moment before replying, "You're not. I'm
not. Why
pretend?" Harry pauses, a short shocked space of time before he
cracks and snickers. Draco snorts, and soon both of them are laughing
with a bitter edge of hysteria.
Eventually, Harry stands. He steps towards his companion and extends
a hand, saying, "Come inside, Draco."
The body behind Draco stirs, and a heavy arm slides further around
him. He relaxes slightly, allowing his own arm to brush against the
constraining one, and it is this action which alerts him to the fact
that they are both still clothed; though he has stripped to only two
of his now-habitual five layers. He waits for another movement on the
part of his bedmate; when none comes, he pulls free and sits up.
Harry blinks up at him, confused and strangely vulnerable-looking
with his glasses off and his hair more mussed than usual.
With deliberate fingers, Draco unbuttons his shirt and slides it off
his shoulders. He pushes aside the curtain to drop it on the floor,
and notes with surprise that it is the middle of the afternoon. All
the better, he thinks; Harry's roommates will be in the library.
His T-shirt slips easily over his head to join the shirt on the
floor, and he looks back to see Harry frowning at his semi-emaciated
frame. He leans over and kisses the darker boy warily, fingers
working at Harry's shirt buttons and skimming over the skin
beneath.
Harry returns the kiss, pulling Draco down to rest on top of his more
solid body.
With Gryffindor blankets above him, his as-yet-unspoken affection
thawing his heart, and the warm body of the Boy Who Won the boy
he killed to protect below him, Draco is finally warm again.
REVIEW!
Back to Fanfiction :: Back to Seasonal
Challenge :: Back to Armchair Main.
