Refresh
Title: Refresh
Rating: PG
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Length: 1830 words, oneshot
Genre: Romance/Angst?
Summary: Spending so much time shut up in a shack could not be good for one's mental state.
Note: I was feeling down and wrote this. I think drinking as much soda as I did created my icky emotions. Written for _hpchallenge using the word 'gravity'
The soda can sits on the grainy table. It is muggle and cheep. Draco knows it’s muggle because wizards don’t have soda. He knows it’s cheep because it belongs to Harry, and he wouldn’t buy anything expensive. Especially not something that simply goes into your stomach and is never found again.
It’s as if the soda can is calling to Draco. It whispers come to me, drink me or maybe Draco just imagines that because he hasn’t slept in two days. It’s impossible to when you’re in hiding from Voldemort and the only people to visit you are Harry Potter and Pansy Parkinson. And it doesn’t help that Draco’s not sure if he can trust either of them.
Pansy is involved with Blaise, a known Death Eater, and though Draco could trust her in the past, it all changes when it’s your life on the line.
Harry is still Harry; he doesn’t talk much and doesn’t like Draco. He only shows up with food every other day, the days Pansy doesn’t, because it was he who started the protection plan for people needing it from Voldemort. Draco knows that Harry only shows up at Draco’s hide out because no one else wants to. No one wants to feed the man who became a Death Eater, almost killed Longbottom, then chickened out and fainted dead on the spot.
It wasn’t like Draco could even perform the killing curse except on small rodents, though that didn’t stop the members of the protection plan from holding it against him. The only reason Draco was even in the protection plan was because Longbottom drug him back there and handed him over, explaining everything. Draco would never have sought help himself. At least help from them. He was still too proud at that point.
Draco lifts his stare from the soda can to look at the surroundings. He does that often, as if looking harder will make it change. Will make it better. The hide out is merely a shack somewhere Draco doesn’t know. They don’t tell him much. He knows the only reason he even got a hide out was that Longbottom, the softie Gryffindor he is, persisted, and Harry said they offered the protection plan to everyone needing help, attempted murder set aside.
“Are you going to eat or not?” Harry asks tightly. He grabs the soda can, his fingers wrapping around the shinny green metal, and brings it to his lips. He blows over the top then tips it back, his head moving with it, exposing his pale throat. Draco suspects he doesn’t get much light anymore. Granted, the sun doesn’t come out much since Voldemort gained power and sent dementors around.
Draco looks at his own skin. His is very white, starkly different from Harry and looking like a piece of parchment against the deep wood of the shabby table between them. He doesn’t go outside. He knows he can, the area is supposed to be safe, but Draco doesn’t know that for sure. Harry and Pansy might just be trying to off him and make it seem like an accident. Lately, every time they visit him, they’ve been much shorter with him.
Harry sighs heavily. “I’m not leaving until you eat. You’re very skinny and not looking well. And anyway, the food’s good. Chicken potpie. Still warm, Molly made it and put some warming spells on it. I don’t know how long it’ll last though.” He looks at Draco in pity. Draco hates pity. He really hates pity from Harry. He likes it better when Harry is angry with him and threatens him but those have been becoming less and less lately. Draco wishes they weren’t because then he would have some emotion bellowing in him except the indifference that had grown after days of being shut up in the shack.
“I’m not hungry,” Draco says, his voice rasping slightly. He doesn’t talk much. At first, he had talked to himself but then he stopped, realizing he might be crazy if he did that.
The chair scraps against the dusty floor loudly as Harry stands and walks around the table to stop beside Draco’s chair. Draco doesn’t look over but he tenses. Harry could be waiting for the right moment to kill him, slice his throat with a knife the muggle way. Draco thinks Harry would kill the muggle way because he drinks like them and if you’re going to go muggle you might as well go as muggle as possible.
Draco jumps but still doesn’t look over when Harry’s fingers dig through Draco’s hair softly. He fingers a piece, running it between calloused pads and sighs quietly. “You need to get out of here. You’re losing it.”
And that’s it. Draco always knew Harry wanted to kill him. But, on the other hand, Draco supposed he did need to get out of it all. He probably was going insane, and a Malfoy could never let that happen. “How are you going to kill me?” he asks. He hopes it won’t be painful. He’s not good with pain.
The hair in Harry’s hand drops to land with the rest. Draco can almost feel the air between them charged with strain. He bets Harry is momentarily confused that Draco knew what he intended to do. He feels a shot of pride run up his spine. It’s been so long since he felt that he doesn’t recognize it at first. And then he smiles, because he felt something. Something beside indifference and fear. Something from his life before he spent time in the shack.
“I’m not going to kill you,” Harry chokes out, his voice garbled as if it causes him pain to say so. “Is that what you thought?” Draco feels Harry’s fingers press fleetingly against his arm before disappearing. He also feels disappointment that he was wrong.
Two emotions in a day. Draco was making a big improvement. Now, if only he could feel hunger. Then Harry would leave with the soda can. The soda can that is still whispering to him. That is telling him to take it.
Draco reaches his hand across the table, the bottom of his arm rubs against the grain and it hurts a bit. His fingers curl around the green metal like Harry had and he barely believes it. He feels human again. He feels like he’s important.
“You want soda?” Harry asks and Draco can’t understand why Harry’s voice is broken like that. He nods anyway and pulls the can to him, waiting for Harry to stick his hand out and stop him. But stop he does not. Harry’s fingers continue in their previous activity of running through Draco’s thin hair.
The metal is cold and warm when his lips touch it. He can feel the cold liquid in it and the trace of Harry’s warm lips formerly on it. Or maybe he doesn’t, and he just imagines it because the soda can is still talking to him. Now it says you want to drink me, you need to drink me and Draco does, because for some reason it matters. It matters so much to feel the soda flow down his throat, the bitter bite of it stinging his nose.
The gravity of this is so great that Draco smiles slightly and hears Harry gasp beside him. Draco hears soft crackles of the drink as he sets the can back down on the table, little wood chips lifting up as he slides it back to its original place.
“You can have more,” Harry insists, grabbing it and pushing it at Draco. Draco smiles again and the gravity of this is even greater. He can’t remember the last time he smiled. He shakes his head, Harry’s fingers falling out of his hair.
“I don’t like it.” But he had liked Harry’s hands in his hair. It was warm and made his scalp itch. That’s when Draco notices the door is open a crack and fear floods through him. Anyone could come in. He gasps, his eyes rolling back and he almost faints, but then Harry shoved his face in front of Draco’s, blocking his view of the door, and Draco can breathe again.
“What?” Harry asks frantically, his fingers digging into Draco’s shoulders.
“The door is open.” He studies the back of Harry’s head as he looks over at the door. The black hair there is thick and unruly. It tangles together lovingly, no strand left alone.
“You’re getting out of here. This place isn’t good for you.” Harry stares into Draco’s eyes, and Draco realizes Harry’s eyes are the brightest color in the room. No matter what may have happened so far in the war, no matter how dark and gloomy things have become, Harry’s eyes are still a bright green.
“Okay,” Draco says and stands, his knees protesting from the weight. He stumbles and Harry catches him. Draco thinks that maybe Harry was right, he needs to eat more. Harry opens the door and beckones Draco over with one finger.
Cautiously, Draco follows. He hasn’t been outside in a long time; there is snow on the ground. Draco didn’t even know it was winter. He had boarded up the windows a while ago. People could look in them and see him.
“We have to walk a bit to get out of the anti-apparition wards, but then we can go. I’ll take you to my place. It’s safe there.” He wraps his fingers around Draco’s wrist, and the warmth is nice. He looks behind him, at the shack he spent so much time by himself in. He sees steam rising from the chicken potpie and feels a pang in his stomach.
Draco folds against the warmth radiating from Harry’s body as they trudge across the snow. He can’t help but look around for danger. For someone else. But everything is white, and he doesn’t see another color. His stomach pangs again as he catches a whiff of whatever shampoos Harry puts in his hair.
“I’m hungry,” he whispers. Harry stops and beams sadly at him. He leans forward and presses his lips against Draco’s forehead briefly. The lips are cold with a hint of warmness in the center. Draco likes the contract and wonders how they would feel on other parts of his body.
“That’s good. I’ll make you a feast when we get back.” He stops and grabs Draco’s arm. Draco wonders if he will be hungry enough for a feast and fists his hand into Harry’s robes. Harry looks at him, the bright green standing out against the white all around them and Draco understands the gravity of this too. The gravity of leaving the shack and leaving with Harry, the one that helped him feel emotions besides fear when Draco thought they had fled him. He leans against the man, readying himself to be apparated, and feels a different kind of warmth pool in his toes to travel up his body.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Length: 1830 words, oneshot
Genre: Romance/Angst?
Summary: Spending so much time shut up in a shack could not be good for one's mental state.
Note: I was feeling down and wrote this. I think drinking as much soda as I did created my icky emotions. Written for _hpchallenge using the word 'gravity'
The soda can sits on the grainy table. It is muggle and cheep. Draco knows it’s muggle because wizards don’t have soda. He knows it’s cheep because it belongs to Harry, and he wouldn’t buy anything expensive. Especially not something that simply goes into your stomach and is never found again.
It’s as if the soda can is calling to Draco. It whispers come to me, drink me or maybe Draco just imagines that because he hasn’t slept in two days. It’s impossible to when you’re in hiding from Voldemort and the only people to visit you are Harry Potter and Pansy Parkinson. And it doesn’t help that Draco’s not sure if he can trust either of them.
Pansy is involved with Blaise, a known Death Eater, and though Draco could trust her in the past, it all changes when it’s your life on the line.
Harry is still Harry; he doesn’t talk much and doesn’t like Draco. He only shows up with food every other day, the days Pansy doesn’t, because it was he who started the protection plan for people needing it from Voldemort. Draco knows that Harry only shows up at Draco’s hide out because no one else wants to. No one wants to feed the man who became a Death Eater, almost killed Longbottom, then chickened out and fainted dead on the spot.
It wasn’t like Draco could even perform the killing curse except on small rodents, though that didn’t stop the members of the protection plan from holding it against him. The only reason Draco was even in the protection plan was because Longbottom drug him back there and handed him over, explaining everything. Draco would never have sought help himself. At least help from them. He was still too proud at that point.
Draco lifts his stare from the soda can to look at the surroundings. He does that often, as if looking harder will make it change. Will make it better. The hide out is merely a shack somewhere Draco doesn’t know. They don’t tell him much. He knows the only reason he even got a hide out was that Longbottom, the softie Gryffindor he is, persisted, and Harry said they offered the protection plan to everyone needing help, attempted murder set aside.
“Are you going to eat or not?” Harry asks tightly. He grabs the soda can, his fingers wrapping around the shinny green metal, and brings it to his lips. He blows over the top then tips it back, his head moving with it, exposing his pale throat. Draco suspects he doesn’t get much light anymore. Granted, the sun doesn’t come out much since Voldemort gained power and sent dementors around.
Draco looks at his own skin. His is very white, starkly different from Harry and looking like a piece of parchment against the deep wood of the shabby table between them. He doesn’t go outside. He knows he can, the area is supposed to be safe, but Draco doesn’t know that for sure. Harry and Pansy might just be trying to off him and make it seem like an accident. Lately, every time they visit him, they’ve been much shorter with him.
Harry sighs heavily. “I’m not leaving until you eat. You’re very skinny and not looking well. And anyway, the food’s good. Chicken potpie. Still warm, Molly made it and put some warming spells on it. I don’t know how long it’ll last though.” He looks at Draco in pity. Draco hates pity. He really hates pity from Harry. He likes it better when Harry is angry with him and threatens him but those have been becoming less and less lately. Draco wishes they weren’t because then he would have some emotion bellowing in him except the indifference that had grown after days of being shut up in the shack.
“I’m not hungry,” Draco says, his voice rasping slightly. He doesn’t talk much. At first, he had talked to himself but then he stopped, realizing he might be crazy if he did that.
The chair scraps against the dusty floor loudly as Harry stands and walks around the table to stop beside Draco’s chair. Draco doesn’t look over but he tenses. Harry could be waiting for the right moment to kill him, slice his throat with a knife the muggle way. Draco thinks Harry would kill the muggle way because he drinks like them and if you’re going to go muggle you might as well go as muggle as possible.
Draco jumps but still doesn’t look over when Harry’s fingers dig through Draco’s hair softly. He fingers a piece, running it between calloused pads and sighs quietly. “You need to get out of here. You’re losing it.”
And that’s it. Draco always knew Harry wanted to kill him. But, on the other hand, Draco supposed he did need to get out of it all. He probably was going insane, and a Malfoy could never let that happen. “How are you going to kill me?” he asks. He hopes it won’t be painful. He’s not good with pain.
The hair in Harry’s hand drops to land with the rest. Draco can almost feel the air between them charged with strain. He bets Harry is momentarily confused that Draco knew what he intended to do. He feels a shot of pride run up his spine. It’s been so long since he felt that he doesn’t recognize it at first. And then he smiles, because he felt something. Something beside indifference and fear. Something from his life before he spent time in the shack.
“I’m not going to kill you,” Harry chokes out, his voice garbled as if it causes him pain to say so. “Is that what you thought?” Draco feels Harry’s fingers press fleetingly against his arm before disappearing. He also feels disappointment that he was wrong.
Two emotions in a day. Draco was making a big improvement. Now, if only he could feel hunger. Then Harry would leave with the soda can. The soda can that is still whispering to him. That is telling him to take it.
Draco reaches his hand across the table, the bottom of his arm rubs against the grain and it hurts a bit. His fingers curl around the green metal like Harry had and he barely believes it. He feels human again. He feels like he’s important.
“You want soda?” Harry asks and Draco can’t understand why Harry’s voice is broken like that. He nods anyway and pulls the can to him, waiting for Harry to stick his hand out and stop him. But stop he does not. Harry’s fingers continue in their previous activity of running through Draco’s thin hair.
The metal is cold and warm when his lips touch it. He can feel the cold liquid in it and the trace of Harry’s warm lips formerly on it. Or maybe he doesn’t, and he just imagines it because the soda can is still talking to him. Now it says you want to drink me, you need to drink me and Draco does, because for some reason it matters. It matters so much to feel the soda flow down his throat, the bitter bite of it stinging his nose.
The gravity of this is so great that Draco smiles slightly and hears Harry gasp beside him. Draco hears soft crackles of the drink as he sets the can back down on the table, little wood chips lifting up as he slides it back to its original place.
“You can have more,” Harry insists, grabbing it and pushing it at Draco. Draco smiles again and the gravity of this is even greater. He can’t remember the last time he smiled. He shakes his head, Harry’s fingers falling out of his hair.
“I don’t like it.” But he had liked Harry’s hands in his hair. It was warm and made his scalp itch. That’s when Draco notices the door is open a crack and fear floods through him. Anyone could come in. He gasps, his eyes rolling back and he almost faints, but then Harry shoved his face in front of Draco’s, blocking his view of the door, and Draco can breathe again.
“What?” Harry asks frantically, his fingers digging into Draco’s shoulders.
“The door is open.” He studies the back of Harry’s head as he looks over at the door. The black hair there is thick and unruly. It tangles together lovingly, no strand left alone.
“You’re getting out of here. This place isn’t good for you.” Harry stares into Draco’s eyes, and Draco realizes Harry’s eyes are the brightest color in the room. No matter what may have happened so far in the war, no matter how dark and gloomy things have become, Harry’s eyes are still a bright green.
“Okay,” Draco says and stands, his knees protesting from the weight. He stumbles and Harry catches him. Draco thinks that maybe Harry was right, he needs to eat more. Harry opens the door and beckones Draco over with one finger.
Cautiously, Draco follows. He hasn’t been outside in a long time; there is snow on the ground. Draco didn’t even know it was winter. He had boarded up the windows a while ago. People could look in them and see him.
“We have to walk a bit to get out of the anti-apparition wards, but then we can go. I’ll take you to my place. It’s safe there.” He wraps his fingers around Draco’s wrist, and the warmth is nice. He looks behind him, at the shack he spent so much time by himself in. He sees steam rising from the chicken potpie and feels a pang in his stomach.
Draco folds against the warmth radiating from Harry’s body as they trudge across the snow. He can’t help but look around for danger. For someone else. But everything is white, and he doesn’t see another color. His stomach pangs again as he catches a whiff of whatever shampoos Harry puts in his hair.
“I’m hungry,” he whispers. Harry stops and beams sadly at him. He leans forward and presses his lips against Draco’s forehead briefly. The lips are cold with a hint of warmness in the center. Draco likes the contract and wonders how they would feel on other parts of his body.
“That’s good. I’ll make you a feast when we get back.” He stops and grabs Draco’s arm. Draco wonders if he will be hungry enough for a feast and fists his hand into Harry’s robes. Harry looks at him, the bright green standing out against the white all around them and Draco understands the gravity of this too. The gravity of leaving the shack and leaving with Harry, the one that helped him feel emotions besides fear when Draco thought they had fled him. He leans against the man, readying himself to be apparated, and feels a different kind of warmth pool in his toes to travel up his body.