Fic - It Was That Day - for hp_art_tales - [H/D, R]
Title: It Was That Day.
Author: alovelycupoftea
Summary: A kiss is just a kiss?
Rating: R
Warnings: Language
Featured Characters/Pairings: Harry/Draco
Word Count: ~2000
Inspiration Art: It Was That Day, by stellamoon
Author's Notes: Stella, I had such a wonderful time talking over what this art meant to you and trying to write the words that capture the feeling and the story. I hope you like it.
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
It Was That Day by stellamoon
~
He felt like he ought to remember all of it. He couldn’t even remember what he’d been doing. Just a hot press of lips, over too soon, over before he’d had any idea what it meant.
~
In the stupid novels Draco read when he was waiting for potions to brew, they remembered all of it. Smells, sensations, burnt into their skin. They lived their whole lives on one exquisite moment. Their surroundings faded, but not their memories.
~
That was fiction, Draco knew. He’d never been one for cataloguing feelings. It had been just like all their other kisses, the same but different, like all of them.
~
Draco disbelieved people who say they know in that moment the significance of that moment. In his life, he’d only ever realised after.
~
Usually after he’d fucked it up.
~
What if this was it? What if this was it and he couldn’t remember what he’d been wearing or what he’d smelled like or how he’d tasted?
~
Then he’d waste away, only without a memory to stay fresh.
~
What if he was just left with the sensation of looking at air disturbed by Apparition and the sinking feeling that another pivotal moment had passed him by?
~
Draco stirred and counted and tried not to think the words ‘what if’.
~
His eyes snapped open, the thought alone enough to wake him. What if he didn’t know?
~
Now, when the possibilities of one set of ‘what if’s were exhausted, there was a whole new set to destroy him.
~
Just come back. Just fucking come back.
~
He’d been rummaging for something unimportant when he’d found a faded t-shirt, shoved in the back of the drawer. He’d brought it up to his nose, and sniffed, and the onslaught made him fall from his crouch to the floor. Blinking back the unexpected tears, he’d buried his face in it, trying to analyse it so he could never forget it again.
~
Smell was a peculiar thing, he reflected. One inhale could transport you through time and place.
~
He’d tried to analyse it, but then he’d started to worry that the smell would fade, merge into the nondescript scent of the house, and he’d shoved it back in the drawer, both desperate to preserve it and hating to let it go.
~
Even when he didn’t intend to, he’d found himself back at the chest of drawers, fingers resting on the handles. He would always leave without opening it, terrified that if he brought the t-shirt out again the smell would fade, and then he’d never come back and he’d still never be able to remember.
~
One night when he couldn’t sleep, he’d searched the library for potions that could bottle smells. He had checked the indices of twenty seven potions books before he’d decided it was an inherently contradictory idea, and there couldn’t possibly be any such concoction.
~
He’d spent the rest of the night trying to work out how one would create the kind of magic that could preserve a smell.
~
At dawn he’d fallen into an exhausted sleep.
~
He could remember the first time they’d kissed. Draco had been excluded once again from another Top Secret Order meeting and was skulking around the top corridor, spoiling for a fight. He’d thundered up the stairs, lips pursed and face flushed, and predictably picked one. Draco had spat out all of his resentment in snide comments and had been angrily pleased when he’d received a punch to the stomach because it meant he could hit back. And he had, and they’d tussled and he didn’t quite know how but he was backed up against the peeling paint on the cold damp wall having his lips almost bitten off and fuck if that hadn’t been better for the swirling tangle of unnamed feelings in his gut than a fist-fight. He kissed back, although it wasn’t so much a kiss as a fierce clash of lips, until the overwhelming feeling pumping through his veins was wanting to get off right the fuck now.
~
In the time before the war, Draco had thought there wasn’t anything stronger than his teenage libido. Turns out, horror and fear and, worst of all, not knowing what the fuck was happening outside his basement-lab, had successfully extinguished it.
~
He was trying to remember all their kisses, trying to work out if he should have known that that kiss was different, special. If that kiss had said goodbye, or something else. Not even the memories of some of their hottest kisses were enough to rouse anything other than fear and desperation and a strange sort of anticipated grief.
~
He’d found a stash of women’s magazines in a cabinet in the sitting room once, and had read them one sleepless night, desperate for distraction. In the ‘coffee-break romance’, all their kisses had meanings. There were I Missed You kisses, I Love You kisses, You’re The Best kisses and various other vomit-inducing kisses. He’d thrown it across the room in disgust before the inevitably sickeningly sweet ending.
~
Kisses couldn’t have meanings, could they? They were just two people’s lips meeting. It was stupid romance story rubbish to suggest that thoughts or emotions could be communicated that way. Wasn’t it?
~
Maybe he had been doing it wrong. Maybe all their kisses had had meanings, and he’d just never picked up on them. Maybe if he had been better at whatever they’d been doing was, then he would have got those messages and he would have known and he would have known that he had known and he wouldn’t be in this position of not knowing and probably never seeing him again.
~
Fuck.
~
This was another thing he’d screwed up.
~
When it wasn’t that time of night when everything felt bleakest, he suddenly remembered one time when he had been allowed into an Order meeting, and he’d learnt about the rage his escape had caused and he’d fled upstairs as soon as he’d been able to, terrified that his mother might have to pay the price for his defection. And he had come, and not said anything, just kissed him until his fear was pushed aside and then held him while he’d sobbed like a child, too scared to be humiliated, too furious with himself that he had been so self-absorbed that he’d seen a chance to run and taken it, without even considering the consequences his family might suffer. And when he’d cried and punched his frustration out on a body that had never flinched from the blows, he had kissed his tear tracks and held him as he fell into an exhausted, fitful sleep.
~
Maybe their kisses did have meanings. Maybe he had understood some of them.
~
It still felt like a horribly cruel twist that he could remember their first kiss so vividly, but not even notice their last kiss. When had he started taking their kisses for granted?
~
How could he have taken their kisses for granted? In the middle of a war, when his own survival was not even guaranteed, how could their kisses have become forgettable?
~
Bring him back. Bring him back alive and I will never again take a kiss for granted.
~
If you bring him back, I will do anything.
~
He didn’t even know who he was praying to. He’d take anyone who was listening.
~
He was pouring a cup of stewed tea from the pot in the kitchen when Kingsley thundered in. His face was drawn but there was an energy about him. ‘The battle is at Hogwarts. Follow the plan.’ He’d left the room as quickly as he’d entered, and Draco was left staring at his mug.
~
This was it.
~
They’d gone over the plan so many times in Order meetings that when the messages came through, there was no panic. Just as they’d planned, everyone went to the battle, a sort of grim determination on their faces.
~
Except for Draco.
~
He’d argued it the first couple of times they’d discussed the plan. Or tried to, anyway.
~
He’d set up the camp beds in the drawing room, and brought all the healing potions and medical supplies up from the makeshift lab in the basement.
~
Even when Voldemort himself had been living in his house, Draco had never known horror like this. As he endlessly reordered vials on a tabletop, he was fighting for his life.
~
For all their lives.
~
And there was nothing he could do about it. Kingsley had taken him aside and rationally explained all the reasons why him being on the front line was dangerous, not just for him. And he knew that.
~
It was a sheer act of will to remain in that house while outside the rest of his life was being decided.
~
He had thought the hours he had to spend with his Malfoy mask on while that hideous creature swept through their house were endless. He’d thought he hours he’d spent watching Death Eaters torture prisoners were endless.
~
He’d thought the time since that last kiss was endless.
~
They were over in seconds compared to this.
~
He would rather be Cruciated again than feel like this. The feeling of horror and anticipation that was heavily spreading out from his gut made him twitchy. He couldn’t stay still.
~
Please still be alive.
~
Please still be alive.
~
Come back. Come back to me.
~
He was sitting by the floo, waiting for news, any news, when he came through it, looking like he’d been to hell and back.
‘Draco.’
~
He knew he should have asked Are you ok? What happened? Is Voldemort dead?
~
He just pulled him into his arms, burying his head in his shoulder and sniffing deeply. It was him.
~
Sending a prayer of thanks up to whoever had listened, Draco put his palms on his cheeks, unable to stop touching for a second and pulled him in for the softest meeting of lips, a kiss that said thank fuck you’re alive.
~
‘Harry’.
FIN
Author: alovelycupoftea
Summary: A kiss is just a kiss?
Rating: R
Warnings: Language
Featured Characters/Pairings: Harry/Draco
Word Count: ~2000
Inspiration Art: It Was That Day, by stellamoon
Author's Notes: Stella, I had such a wonderful time talking over what this art meant to you and trying to write the words that capture the feeling and the story. I hope you like it.
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
It Was That Day by stellamoon
~
He felt like he ought to remember all of it. He couldn’t even remember what he’d been doing. Just a hot press of lips, over too soon, over before he’d had any idea what it meant.
~
In the stupid novels Draco read when he was waiting for potions to brew, they remembered all of it. Smells, sensations, burnt into their skin. They lived their whole lives on one exquisite moment. Their surroundings faded, but not their memories.
~
That was fiction, Draco knew. He’d never been one for cataloguing feelings. It had been just like all their other kisses, the same but different, like all of them.
~
Draco disbelieved people who say they know in that moment the significance of that moment. In his life, he’d only ever realised after.
~
Usually after he’d fucked it up.
~
What if this was it? What if this was it and he couldn’t remember what he’d been wearing or what he’d smelled like or how he’d tasted?
~
Then he’d waste away, only without a memory to stay fresh.
~
What if he was just left with the sensation of looking at air disturbed by Apparition and the sinking feeling that another pivotal moment had passed him by?
~
Draco stirred and counted and tried not to think the words ‘what if’.
~
His eyes snapped open, the thought alone enough to wake him. What if he didn’t know?
~
Now, when the possibilities of one set of ‘what if’s were exhausted, there was a whole new set to destroy him.
~
Just come back. Just fucking come back.
~
He’d been rummaging for something unimportant when he’d found a faded t-shirt, shoved in the back of the drawer. He’d brought it up to his nose, and sniffed, and the onslaught made him fall from his crouch to the floor. Blinking back the unexpected tears, he’d buried his face in it, trying to analyse it so he could never forget it again.
~
Smell was a peculiar thing, he reflected. One inhale could transport you through time and place.
~
He’d tried to analyse it, but then he’d started to worry that the smell would fade, merge into the nondescript scent of the house, and he’d shoved it back in the drawer, both desperate to preserve it and hating to let it go.
~
Even when he didn’t intend to, he’d found himself back at the chest of drawers, fingers resting on the handles. He would always leave without opening it, terrified that if he brought the t-shirt out again the smell would fade, and then he’d never come back and he’d still never be able to remember.
~
One night when he couldn’t sleep, he’d searched the library for potions that could bottle smells. He had checked the indices of twenty seven potions books before he’d decided it was an inherently contradictory idea, and there couldn’t possibly be any such concoction.
~
He’d spent the rest of the night trying to work out how one would create the kind of magic that could preserve a smell.
~
At dawn he’d fallen into an exhausted sleep.
~
He could remember the first time they’d kissed. Draco had been excluded once again from another Top Secret Order meeting and was skulking around the top corridor, spoiling for a fight. He’d thundered up the stairs, lips pursed and face flushed, and predictably picked one. Draco had spat out all of his resentment in snide comments and had been angrily pleased when he’d received a punch to the stomach because it meant he could hit back. And he had, and they’d tussled and he didn’t quite know how but he was backed up against the peeling paint on the cold damp wall having his lips almost bitten off and fuck if that hadn’t been better for the swirling tangle of unnamed feelings in his gut than a fist-fight. He kissed back, although it wasn’t so much a kiss as a fierce clash of lips, until the overwhelming feeling pumping through his veins was wanting to get off right the fuck now.
~
In the time before the war, Draco had thought there wasn’t anything stronger than his teenage libido. Turns out, horror and fear and, worst of all, not knowing what the fuck was happening outside his basement-lab, had successfully extinguished it.
~
He was trying to remember all their kisses, trying to work out if he should have known that that kiss was different, special. If that kiss had said goodbye, or something else. Not even the memories of some of their hottest kisses were enough to rouse anything other than fear and desperation and a strange sort of anticipated grief.
~
He’d found a stash of women’s magazines in a cabinet in the sitting room once, and had read them one sleepless night, desperate for distraction. In the ‘coffee-break romance’, all their kisses had meanings. There were I Missed You kisses, I Love You kisses, You’re The Best kisses and various other vomit-inducing kisses. He’d thrown it across the room in disgust before the inevitably sickeningly sweet ending.
~
Kisses couldn’t have meanings, could they? They were just two people’s lips meeting. It was stupid romance story rubbish to suggest that thoughts or emotions could be communicated that way. Wasn’t it?
~
Maybe he had been doing it wrong. Maybe all their kisses had had meanings, and he’d just never picked up on them. Maybe if he had been better at whatever they’d been doing was, then he would have got those messages and he would have known and he would have known that he had known and he wouldn’t be in this position of not knowing and probably never seeing him again.
~
Fuck.
~
This was another thing he’d screwed up.
~
When it wasn’t that time of night when everything felt bleakest, he suddenly remembered one time when he had been allowed into an Order meeting, and he’d learnt about the rage his escape had caused and he’d fled upstairs as soon as he’d been able to, terrified that his mother might have to pay the price for his defection. And he had come, and not said anything, just kissed him until his fear was pushed aside and then held him while he’d sobbed like a child, too scared to be humiliated, too furious with himself that he had been so self-absorbed that he’d seen a chance to run and taken it, without even considering the consequences his family might suffer. And when he’d cried and punched his frustration out on a body that had never flinched from the blows, he had kissed his tear tracks and held him as he fell into an exhausted, fitful sleep.
~
Maybe their kisses did have meanings. Maybe he had understood some of them.
~
It still felt like a horribly cruel twist that he could remember their first kiss so vividly, but not even notice their last kiss. When had he started taking their kisses for granted?
~
How could he have taken their kisses for granted? In the middle of a war, when his own survival was not even guaranteed, how could their kisses have become forgettable?
~
Bring him back. Bring him back alive and I will never again take a kiss for granted.
~
If you bring him back, I will do anything.
~
He didn’t even know who he was praying to. He’d take anyone who was listening.
~
He was pouring a cup of stewed tea from the pot in the kitchen when Kingsley thundered in. His face was drawn but there was an energy about him. ‘The battle is at Hogwarts. Follow the plan.’ He’d left the room as quickly as he’d entered, and Draco was left staring at his mug.
~
This was it.
~
They’d gone over the plan so many times in Order meetings that when the messages came through, there was no panic. Just as they’d planned, everyone went to the battle, a sort of grim determination on their faces.
~
Except for Draco.
~
He’d argued it the first couple of times they’d discussed the plan. Or tried to, anyway.
~
He’d set up the camp beds in the drawing room, and brought all the healing potions and medical supplies up from the makeshift lab in the basement.
~
Even when Voldemort himself had been living in his house, Draco had never known horror like this. As he endlessly reordered vials on a tabletop, he was fighting for his life.
~
For all their lives.
~
And there was nothing he could do about it. Kingsley had taken him aside and rationally explained all the reasons why him being on the front line was dangerous, not just for him. And he knew that.
~
It was a sheer act of will to remain in that house while outside the rest of his life was being decided.
~
He had thought the hours he had to spend with his Malfoy mask on while that hideous creature swept through their house were endless. He’d thought he hours he’d spent watching Death Eaters torture prisoners were endless.
~
He’d thought the time since that last kiss was endless.
~
They were over in seconds compared to this.
~
He would rather be Cruciated again than feel like this. The feeling of horror and anticipation that was heavily spreading out from his gut made him twitchy. He couldn’t stay still.
~
Please still be alive.
~
Please still be alive.
~
Come back. Come back to me.
~
He was sitting by the floo, waiting for news, any news, when he came through it, looking like he’d been to hell and back.
‘Draco.’
~
He knew he should have asked Are you ok? What happened? Is Voldemort dead?
~
He just pulled him into his arms, burying his head in his shoulder and sniffing deeply. It was him.
~
Sending a prayer of thanks up to whoever had listened, Draco put his palms on his cheeks, unable to stop touching for a second and pulled him in for the softest meeting of lips, a kiss that said thank fuck you’re alive.
~
‘Harry’.
FIN