Fran's story archive - The Spare Room
Another story from my old journal, which I am archiving to this journal.
This is the last of the stories written during the Football World Cup of 2002 and is the third part of a series of stories about Harry watching the England matches with a very uninterested Draco. My original intention had been to write a story for each of the England matches, but as often happens with me, the best laid plans ... *sigh*. I have a half-finished story that was meant to take place on 21st June 2002. Hmmm, England are playing Croatia next Monday, which happens to be 21st June ... maybe I will have to see if I can find my original notes....
Part one, The Big Match, was written after the England vs Sweden match on 2nd June 2002.
Part two, The Beautiful Game, was written during the Argentina vs England Match on 7th June 2002. It was originally posted in three parts as the match took place ... The Beautiful Game, Half Time, and Full Time.
Part three, The Spare Room, takes place in the early hours of 8th June. Draco walked out on Harry the previous day.
Location: A house somewhere in the South of England. I can’t tell you where exactly because it is unplottable thanks to anti-location spells.
The time: 8th June 2002. The early hours of Saturday morning. Anyone would think England had won the cup the way Muggles are celebrating!
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The spare room was, in reality, the converted loft space. It was like, Harry had thought the first time he’d seen it, sleeping inside a pyramid. When he and Draco had first moved into the house a year ago, it had been their first choice as a bedroom, but it was really too small for day-to-day living. It had been magicked at one point to be larger, but then it lost its own dream-like quality and was quickly returned to its former glory where it began its new life as ‘the spare room’.
There was just enough room in it for the huge bed and a long, low drawer unit. Sometimes, when Draco was away, Harry would find himself drawn to the room where he would sleep beneath the skylight through which starlight and moonbeams would flood. Draco never said whether he did the same if Harry wasn’t there.
It was in this room that Harry had found all of Draco’s things. Neatly folded into the many drawers or hung from a row of hooks. It wasn’t the moved clothes that upset him, but the few items on the bedside table. Personal things. The book Draco had been reading. A small framed photo, now turned face down. A small crystal water glass. The little Chinese dragon that Harry had found at an antiques market.
He had sat on the edge of the bed for a long time waiting, watching the oblong of sky through the skylight change from stormy grey to frosty blue as the sun tried to come out, like Draco’s eyes watching him. Then it had started to rain, tears running down the glass, and he had climbed back down the tiny spiral staircase to the lounge.
Draco had returned, as it was getting dark. His curt responses to Harry’s questions had stung.
He’d gone out because Harry has told him to find some way of amusing himself for a few hours.
He’d moved his things because it was clear Harry had intended to whatever happened. And it had amused him to do so.
No, he wasn’t hungry; he’d eaten already.
Of course he’d never been in any danger by flying off on his own. Did Harry think he was stupid or something?
And finally, good night, he was going to bed.
Harry had watched him stride off up the stairs without looking back, without a touch or a kiss or anything. Why, Harry wondered as he watched the retreating back, was Draco always able to make him feel guilty even if it wasn’t his fault? Sometimes he hated the Slytherin. Well, maybe hate was too harsh, but Draco always had to have the last word. Why couldn’t he just say ‘sorry’ for once?
It was by the door of the spare room that Harry now stood. He had fallen asleep waiting for Draco who hadn’t come and now, in the early hours of the morning, Harry had crept back up the stairs and opened the door.
Several nightlights flickered in the still room; the only sound that of the rain against the glass. The candles sat in a little frame on top of the drawer unit. Draco had constructed the frame, a little artistic endeavour that had surprised Harry. He remembered fondly watching those long fingers shaping the wire; constructing it with the same care they could remove the tension from his body.
The sleeping figure was on his left side, facing away from the door. Candlelight reflected off Draco’s hair and the skin of the arm that had been pushed above the sheets, and he looked golden in the light. Harry knew how Draco’s body would be positioned under the sheet. The left leg would be straight while the right would be bent at the hip, almost at right angles to his body. The right knee would also be bent, where it rested on the bed, pulling Draco slightly forward, and stretching the lithe back in a curve. And the ankle would be resting on his straight leg just below the knee. His left hand would either be cupping his face, or hugged across his chest touching his shoulder.
Harry knew this because he had watched Draco in sleep so many times. Had seem him go from being a troubled sleeper with nightmares he never talked about, to a calm peaceful person who would become open as he dreamed, the beloved face serene.
Draco was, Harry knew, the centre of his universe now. He ached when they were apart and, sometimes he reminded himself, hated it when they were together. Hermione had once told him that he and Draco were actually too alike to live in harmony. He hadn’t understood her comment at the time, but now realised the truth of it. Two headstrong individuals who thought they were always right.
He crossed the few paces to the edge of the bed and paused for a moment, chewing at his lip. Draco should come to him, the headstrong Slytherin part of him chided. To go to Draco now was an admission that Harry was in the wrong and that it was all right for Draco to control where he went and what he did. But, the bold Gryffindor reminded him, how many times had Draco come back to him after an argument? How many times had Draco said he wouldn’t come back, only to later return?
Pushing his robe off his shoulders, Harry climbed into the bed. He wanted to be noisy and wake Draco up, but he also wanted to just take that sleeping form in his arms and hold him. Let him wake up wrapped inside Harry’s embrace.
Moulding himself against the still form, Harry felt the warm flesh of Draco’s back against his chest. They fitted so nicely together, chest to shoulder blades, stomach to the hollow of Draco’s back. Harry curled his legs, following the line of Draco’s, and he felt the curve of the blond’s arse nestle into his groin. He nuzzled against Draco’s neck, tasting the skin against his lips as he brushed the soft hair gently to one side and he thought there was a responding sigh. “Draconis.” Harry threaded his arm under the limb still outside of the sheets, letting it rest lightly against Draco’s stomach.
Draco’s free hand rose from the sheet and took hold of Harry’s fingers. They were raised gently and softly kissed. “Leoninus,” he whispered against the fingers, before placing the hand over his heart.
---------------------------------
The following artwork was drawn by aome for the story
This is the last of the stories written during the Football World Cup of 2002 and is the third part of a series of stories about Harry watching the England matches with a very uninterested Draco. My original intention had been to write a story for each of the England matches, but as often happens with me, the best laid plans ... *sigh*. I have a half-finished story that was meant to take place on 21st June 2002. Hmmm, England are playing Croatia next Monday, which happens to be 21st June ... maybe I will have to see if I can find my original notes....
Part one, The Big Match, was written after the England vs Sweden match on 2nd June 2002.
Part two, The Beautiful Game, was written during the Argentina vs England Match on 7th June 2002. It was originally posted in three parts as the match took place ... The Beautiful Game, Half Time, and Full Time.
Part three, The Spare Room, takes place in the early hours of 8th June. Draco walked out on Harry the previous day.
Location: A house somewhere in the South of England. I can’t tell you where exactly because it is unplottable thanks to anti-location spells.
The time: 8th June 2002. The early hours of Saturday morning. Anyone would think England had won the cup the way Muggles are celebrating!
----------------------
The spare room was, in reality, the converted loft space. It was like, Harry had thought the first time he’d seen it, sleeping inside a pyramid. When he and Draco had first moved into the house a year ago, it had been their first choice as a bedroom, but it was really too small for day-to-day living. It had been magicked at one point to be larger, but then it lost its own dream-like quality and was quickly returned to its former glory where it began its new life as ‘the spare room’.
There was just enough room in it for the huge bed and a long, low drawer unit. Sometimes, when Draco was away, Harry would find himself drawn to the room where he would sleep beneath the skylight through which starlight and moonbeams would flood. Draco never said whether he did the same if Harry wasn’t there.
It was in this room that Harry had found all of Draco’s things. Neatly folded into the many drawers or hung from a row of hooks. It wasn’t the moved clothes that upset him, but the few items on the bedside table. Personal things. The book Draco had been reading. A small framed photo, now turned face down. A small crystal water glass. The little Chinese dragon that Harry had found at an antiques market.
He had sat on the edge of the bed for a long time waiting, watching the oblong of sky through the skylight change from stormy grey to frosty blue as the sun tried to come out, like Draco’s eyes watching him. Then it had started to rain, tears running down the glass, and he had climbed back down the tiny spiral staircase to the lounge.
Draco had returned, as it was getting dark. His curt responses to Harry’s questions had stung.
He’d gone out because Harry has told him to find some way of amusing himself for a few hours.
He’d moved his things because it was clear Harry had intended to whatever happened. And it had amused him to do so.
No, he wasn’t hungry; he’d eaten already.
Of course he’d never been in any danger by flying off on his own. Did Harry think he was stupid or something?
And finally, good night, he was going to bed.
Harry had watched him stride off up the stairs without looking back, without a touch or a kiss or anything. Why, Harry wondered as he watched the retreating back, was Draco always able to make him feel guilty even if it wasn’t his fault? Sometimes he hated the Slytherin. Well, maybe hate was too harsh, but Draco always had to have the last word. Why couldn’t he just say ‘sorry’ for once?
It was by the door of the spare room that Harry now stood. He had fallen asleep waiting for Draco who hadn’t come and now, in the early hours of the morning, Harry had crept back up the stairs and opened the door.
Several nightlights flickered in the still room; the only sound that of the rain against the glass. The candles sat in a little frame on top of the drawer unit. Draco had constructed the frame, a little artistic endeavour that had surprised Harry. He remembered fondly watching those long fingers shaping the wire; constructing it with the same care they could remove the tension from his body.
The sleeping figure was on his left side, facing away from the door. Candlelight reflected off Draco’s hair and the skin of the arm that had been pushed above the sheets, and he looked golden in the light. Harry knew how Draco’s body would be positioned under the sheet. The left leg would be straight while the right would be bent at the hip, almost at right angles to his body. The right knee would also be bent, where it rested on the bed, pulling Draco slightly forward, and stretching the lithe back in a curve. And the ankle would be resting on his straight leg just below the knee. His left hand would either be cupping his face, or hugged across his chest touching his shoulder.
Harry knew this because he had watched Draco in sleep so many times. Had seem him go from being a troubled sleeper with nightmares he never talked about, to a calm peaceful person who would become open as he dreamed, the beloved face serene.
Draco was, Harry knew, the centre of his universe now. He ached when they were apart and, sometimes he reminded himself, hated it when they were together. Hermione had once told him that he and Draco were actually too alike to live in harmony. He hadn’t understood her comment at the time, but now realised the truth of it. Two headstrong individuals who thought they were always right.
He crossed the few paces to the edge of the bed and paused for a moment, chewing at his lip. Draco should come to him, the headstrong Slytherin part of him chided. To go to Draco now was an admission that Harry was in the wrong and that it was all right for Draco to control where he went and what he did. But, the bold Gryffindor reminded him, how many times had Draco come back to him after an argument? How many times had Draco said he wouldn’t come back, only to later return?
Pushing his robe off his shoulders, Harry climbed into the bed. He wanted to be noisy and wake Draco up, but he also wanted to just take that sleeping form in his arms and hold him. Let him wake up wrapped inside Harry’s embrace.
Moulding himself against the still form, Harry felt the warm flesh of Draco’s back against his chest. They fitted so nicely together, chest to shoulder blades, stomach to the hollow of Draco’s back. Harry curled his legs, following the line of Draco’s, and he felt the curve of the blond’s arse nestle into his groin. He nuzzled against Draco’s neck, tasting the skin against his lips as he brushed the soft hair gently to one side and he thought there was a responding sigh. “Draconis.” Harry threaded his arm under the limb still outside of the sheets, letting it rest lightly against Draco’s stomach.
Draco’s free hand rose from the sheet and took hold of Harry’s fingers. They were raised gently and softly kissed. “Leoninus,” he whispered against the fingers, before placing the hand over his heart.
---------------------------------
The following artwork was drawn by aome for the story