megyal
in
harrydraco
When Love beckons to you, follow him
Title: When Love beckons to you, follow him (H/D)
Author: megyal
Rating: PG-13
A/N: For serpentinelion’s Secrets and Wishes Fest for jamie2109, for this : "The story starts with Draco waking up, lost, somewhere in a forest... probably the Forbidden Forest. He has no idea where he is or how he got there. As he is blundering around trying to find his way home, he hears Harry’s voice in his head, telling him what to do. Which way to go, what things to eat, what to do to keep himself safe... things like that. Of course at first Draco doesn't believe him, but after a few things work, he does and listens to him. Along the way, they talk and get to know each other better and eventually, when Draco makes it out of the forest he goes and kisses Harry to the shock of all, except Harry. You can then make up how you want to explain it all."
Betas: winnettfics and mirrorwakes, who are incomparably patient.
When Love beckons to you, follow him
The first thing Draco felt was a sharp prickling in his back: tiny, spiky fingers poked through the material of his robes and scratched at his skin. He let out a long-suffering groan and sat up too quickly; his head swam in complaint. He opened his eyes gingerly and groaned again.
He was in a small clearing, massive aged trees lining its edges. The grass was tall around him, reaching his shoulder as the wind caused the green blades to brush against him curiously. There seemed to be a strange stillness in the air, a silence that was heavy around him. No bird-calls, no rustling hurry of animals. The strong rays of the sun fought through the thick canopy of leaves; it seemed that there were only a few more hours left in the day.
Draco sighed again and the grass commiserated. Standing as carefully as he dared, he tried to recall how he’d come here to this silent place. He poked at his memory and could only come up with an auditory glimpse: screams and desperate shouts. He patted at his sleeve for his wand, but its comforting shape wasn't there in the long slender pocket. Draco felt very close to spitting some choice words, but the stillness was forbidding.
Instantly, he decided that whatever this was, it was all Potter’s fault.
He began to walk to the edge of the clearing, stumbling a little before peering into the tranquil green silence amongst the trees. After a few moments of consideration, he stepped into the forest proper, holding back heavy branches and struggling through the lower bushes. The silence wasn’t that threatening, but he still felt unnerved by it.
"Hello?" he called, not quite sure who he was calling to or why; he had just felt the urge to break that stillness and he was starting to feel cranky. "Damn it, can anyone hear me?"
A single leaf floated from one of the high branches and Draco tracked its fall with wide eyes. It was a lovely leaf, green and full. There was no reason for it to fall, yet it had, turning over and over lazily, twisting in the air until it was almost right in front of him. Without realising what he was doing, he reached out a hand and it landed neatly in the centre of his palm.
Can you hear me?
Draco jumped at the sound of the voice. It seemed to come from all around him. He clenched the leaf in his fist, crushing it, causing it to give off a faint, familiar smell, but Draco was too startled to take note. He spun around as fast as he could, but there was no one near him at all. He tried to calm his breathing, but the voice had been too clear to be mistaken; it seemed as if someone had spoken right in his ear.
Draco. Can you hear me? Please, tell me you can.
"Potter?" Draco's voice was a hoarse whisper. The leaf in his hand was almost crushed to pieces and Draco noticed a faint smell of mint. "What the fuck?"
Can you come back?
"What? Where are you? Whatever, I don’t care. I don't know what you think you're doing, but there’s something important going on, called a battle. Lives! They are in the balance. Stop wasting my time.”
There was a lengthy pause and Draco felt his temper start to boil.
"Potter! Stop playing around. Come out from where you're hiding and let's get back to the castle. If you've left the Weasel and that werewolf in charge I will personally tear you to pieces." The silence seemed to become amused and Draco ground his teeth. "Pieces," he promised darkly.
The war is over. There is no more Voldemort.
"That's not very funny, Potter," Draco said quietly. "You know about my mother--"
She's here. She's waiting for you to come back.
Draco had an unpleasant suspicion -- this was most certainly a trap. Someone had charmed his voice to sound like Potter and now he was going to lure him into a trap and kill him; after all that trouble to defect to the damn-blasted side of Light, he was going to die at the hands of a former colleague. The world did not like him. At all.
It's not a trick. It's really me, Harry. Just... come back, please.
Draco clamped his hands over his ears and shook his head.
"Get out of my head, whoever you are. Get the fuck out."
He strode along as fast as he could, feeling his robes being caught by sharp brambles, trying to keep his hands pressed to ears.
*
"Fuck!" Draco screamed as he came upon the clearing for the fifth time. The sun was nearly ready to set and he was thirsty, cold and very tired. He was walking in circles and the silence that had seemed non-threatening before had taken on a more sinister tone.
You're lost.
"Yes, well, tell me something I don't know," Draco hissed, standing of the middle of the clearing, exactly where he had regained consciousness earlier. He glared at the flattened shape in the grass that his body had created, rubbing his eyes. He was a full-fledged wizard by anyone’s standards, but he felt like a small child right then: he just wanted to go home.
Let me help. I can, you know.
"Right, because if you were really Potter, also known as He Who Has Lost His Comb, you’d have me out of here in two shakes of a hero’s wand." Draco shoved his hands up his sleeves and rubbed his arms; the air was getting cold. "And I don't believe that you're Potter, in any case. So do me a favour and piss off, thanks."
There was a long pause and Draco was thinking that the impostor had finally gone for good when the pseudo-Harry began again. Draco rolled his eyes.
You reach for the Snitch with your left hand, although you write with your right. I've always thought that was a strange thing. Your mother says that your favourite chocolate is a Muggle one... Ferrero Rocher. You told Parkinson once that your favourite colour is really red but you'd die before anyone else found out--
"Yes, like now. Remind me to kill Pansy when next I see her," Draco muttered and Potter chuckled.
When you came to us, your hair was long, past your shoulders, I guess… and you cut it off. Short, like it was back in school. Everyone thought you did it to look less like your father. Which… made sense, I suppose.
Draco closed his eyes, clenched at his arms and tried not to think of his father. How alike they looked on the damp field, even with his hair shorn so short.
You know it's me.
"Fine," Draco snapped and removed one of his arms from the warm sleeve to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Fine, fine, Potter, you're in my head, I'm lost in a forest and you know the way out. You can start being helpful sometime soon. The sun is about to set."
Let's not move for now. You need to find somewhere safe to be. Maybe climb a tree.
"Wow," Draco said sourly. "A Malfoy in a tree. Abraxas is rolling in his grave."
*
Draco thought he wouldn’t get any sleep during the night. The silence of the day became an ominous presence at dusk, even more disturbing than the former quiet. It seemed he was stuck in a forest from which all the animals had been erased and he did not like the implications of this. The tree Potter told him to choose had its limbs growing close together, creating a sort of natural platform at different intervals along the length of its trunk. He scratched his hands while breaking some thick bushes to lay over the branches, creating a small platform. Climbing up and down the tree exhausted him, but he finally had enough space covered so he could spread his cloak over the bushes and gingerly lie down, near to the trunk of the tree about thirty feet off the ground. His makeshift bed held; deep-down he was delighted at his handiwork.
From where he lay, all he could see was the golden light of the sunset making lovely patterns all around him. He breathed carefully, his hands folded under his head; he could still smell the mint of the leaf he had crushed in the skin of his palm.
Are you alright?
"I’ll live." Draco bit his lip. "Potter... is... is my mother still there with you?”
No. She can't stay all the time. But she’s here a lot… and I'll be here, as long as you want.
"I'm touched," Draco said dryly to hide his relief as the light around him changed, fading. "I don't hear any animals around me, Potter. That could be a bad thing, or a very bad thing. I wager they’re waiting for me to fall sleep so they can pounce on me and savour my delicate flesh."
Delica--? I won’t even go there, Draco, seriously. And it’s alright. Where you are is safe.
"How can you be sure?" Draco said, shivering a little and drawing the end of his cloak over his shoulder. "You're not even here, I don’t even know where you are, so how the hell can you know? This is really not fair."
I know. Harry's voice was gentle. But I'm here. Try to rest.
"I can't," Draco fussed, trying to find a comfortable spot, the branches of the tree rubbing knobbly ridges against his back and ribs. "It's far too early for my bedtime, really, and there's this branch sticking in my knee, it's going to leave a bloody bruise, oh Merlin--"
Um…okay. I can read something to you, if you want. Its one of my favourite books: The Prophet. Not the paper, I know you're going to point that out, so be quiet. A Muggle wrote this.
Draco, who had opened his mouth to berate Harry for reading him the news in the midst of his troubles, closed it.
It's about this Prophet who went to speak to a bunch of people and they asked him to talk to them on different topics, like a school of life, or something. This is from the chapter, ‘On Freedom’.
Draco heard Harry clear his throat gently and start to read in slow measured tones.
'And how shall you rise beyond your days and nights unless you break the chains which you at the dawn of your understanding have fastened around your noon hour? ...and what is it but fragments of your own self you would discard that you may be free?'
"Yes, alright. Lovely… what does that even mean?" Draco asked, not realising that he spoke in a drowsy manner. He could literally feel Harry ponder this in his mind and wondered fleetingly just how he’d gotten there in the first place.
I think it means that you're the only person who can free yourself. You're the one who has to be willing to make the change.
Draco thought about how he had agonised over the decisions he had made, especially those that had gone contrary to his father's choices. All his life, who he was had been defined by his name, his acquaintances and even Potter. In those instances when he’d sat down and tried to think deeply, for himself, he had been simply Draco.
In those moments he liked to think that he had been free. No Malfoy should be a captive to anyone or anything; and begrudgingly he admitted that if anyone could help keep him free and not have him or his mother or his friends indebted, then that would be Potter and his little Order.
He even found that his intense dislike (Pansy called it an obsessive emotional disturbance) for Potter had tempered itself into a slight loathing and then into what most warring countries called a truce; he referred to it as his burden to bear as Potter gave him furtive, questioning looks during Order meetings.
"I think I understand," he said sleepily and fell into the arms of slumber, only vaguely noting that Harry had replied.
Yes. I think I do, too.
*
Draco awoke from a dream that had been terrifying in its realism. In it, he saw Potter, his mouth a thin pale line in his face, the right side of his head a bloody, ashy mess as spells flew about them. He had seen a figure dressed in pale robes materialise behind Potter as they fought in a devastated field, pointing an ethereal wand at his back. Without thinking, Draco moved in front of the path of fire and Harry had turned, also pointing. The first spell had hit him with excruciating pain; but before he could open his mouth to scream, Harry's spell had soothed over his whole body.
He opened his eyes blearily, stretching to get the stiffness out of his limbs.
Ah, you're up, Harry piped up in his head and Draco nearly fell out of his tree in alarm.
"Potter, I’m going to ask you not to do that again." Draco clutched at his robe and shuddered in the crisp morning air. "I nearly fell out of the tree and broke my neck. It's a wonderful neck; it would have been a terrible loss."
Agreed, Harry said amiably. Can you see what direction the sun is rising in? If you can, you have to go straight that way.
"I'm thirsty... and hungry. No breakfast?" Draco climbed down the tree as carefully as he had climbed up, brushing the leaves out of his hair and smacking his mouth in distaste; how he wished for his wand so he could perform a Cleaning Charm on his teeth; hell, he was desperate enough for that alarmingly bristly Mugglestick that he’d heard someone call a Teethbrusher.
There's a river nearby, I believe.
"You don't sound too sure," Draco pointed out, squinting at the sun and heading out in the direction from which it seemed to emerge. He plunged into the cool of the forest, walking swiftly so that if he came upon the clearing again, he could get over his disappointment quicker.
I'm positive there is. Aren't you? It's just ahead, you know as well as I.
"You're talking like you’ve fallen into a vat of Firewhiskey. I feel ill just listening to you," Draco said without any heat at all. "And I’m still waiting to see this so-called river, Potter, yet-"
He stopped suddenly and cocked his head in the silence. He heard something, a cheerful bubbling sound some ways ahead.
Can't you hear it? It's not too far. Go and drink.
Draco hesitated. He hadn’t moved, yet the sound of the stream grew louder as soon as Potter said 'drink'. He bit his lip; the parched feeling in the back of his throat grew with a dry strength.
Trust me. I trusted you, right? Trust me in this. It's close and you have to keep moving when you're finished... move towards the sun.
Draco took a few tentative steps forward, the silence in the air pressing all about him and without warning, the trees seemed to thin. He almost fell right into the broad river, light glinting off its smooth surface. He looked up and down its banks but the same lonely atmosphere pervaded the whole scene. The river spoke to him now, its voice sweet in the quiet air.
Draco took off his over robe and struggled with his shirt underneath. He knelt by the water's edge and eyed it carefully. Shrugging, he cupped his hands and splashed his face, gasping at the chill of it. He stood and took off the rest of his clothes without stopping to think, slung them over a low tree-limb, and waded directly into the cold water.
He went in up to his chest, tilting his face towards the sun and dipping completely under. He felt like the last person on earth.
"I'm all alone," he murmured and Harry made a sharp noise in his head.
No. I'm here, remember? Besides... there's nothing wrong with being alone.
"Is that so?" Draco submerged himself again, opening his eyes as he tried to sit on the bed of the river. The water, which had seemed entirely opaque on top, had a strange sea-green transparency underneath. Potter's voice was still in his head, seeming to echo in the water.
Yeah... a lot of people think that being alone is bad. There are all sides to being alone... like, alright, loneliness is awful. It feels like there's no-one else to care about what happens to you. But solitude... it can be glorious.
Draco came up and gasped a little for air. It had been a long time since he’d done that.
"Sounds like you like the solitude, Potter," Draco said carefully, trying to float on his back. To his delight, it worked. His slim frame was pale in the silver of the river, his hair gossamer strands around his head.
I treasure it, actually. And you don't really have to be alone to have solitude... I think you can be in the same room with someone who understands the need… they don't have to talk to you and disturb the peace of mind you're trying to build up for yourself.
"And I supposed you've found someone like that already. Potter, you vile man. You’ve now broken many a heart. And here I thought my perfection would have worn you down in the end." Draco didn’t know why he was teasing Potter while he waded back to the still shore, but it was worth actually feeling Harry's blush in his mind, before a soft laugh filtered through.
Yes, Draco, because everyone knows you talk your head off, especially when no-one wants to hear you… although I’ve seen where you can be quiet when you want to be. And no… I haven’t found someone as yet... not really.
Draco tilted his head curiously, allowing the sun to dry his skin.
“Does your Prophet say anything about that? About talking, I mean.”
Yes. He does…wait a moment… ‘On Talking: You talk when you cease to be at peace with your thoughts; And when you can no longer dwell in the solitude of your heart you live in your lips, and sound is a diversion and a pastime. And in much of your talking, thinking is half murdered. For thought is a bird of space, that in a cage of words many indeed unfold its wings but cannot fly. There are those among you who seek the talkative through fear of being alone.’
Draco folded his lips in and remembered how his mother had told him once that he liked to hear the sound of his own voice. He had told her that it was a very nice voice and she simply smiled at him. But it wasn’t that he was afraid of being alone! Sure, he knew that chattering snidely in Potter’s ear annoyed him no end… at least, it used to annoy him. Nowadays, Draco found that he would receive a small amused look in response to his low comments during meetings. Draco shook his head and tried to forget smiling green eyes.
"Towards the rising sun, yes?"
Yeah. You'll be home soon.
*
'On Good and Evil', Harry read from his Muggle book as Draco picked his way through the forest, the sun at his back; he was munching on some red berries that Harry had given a mental thumbs up to eat when Draco had described them. It seemed to be a lush summer now, here in his forest and Draco wondered exactly which part of the world he was in... and how he had arrived. Harry had not been too forthcoming with that. Instead Harry continued to read: 'You are good in countless ways and you are not evil when you are not good...’ oh and listen to this part, Draco ‘...you are good when you strive to give of yourself yet you are not evil when you seek gain for yourself.'
There was a thoughtful silence as Draco picked his way over a mossy pile of fallen trees.
The first time I read that, we had just come off one of our first battles and I thought of you... you're so not good, Draco, but you're not evil.
"What!?" Draco yelled, his voice vibrating in the stillness. "I am downright malevolent. I will make your hair curl with my fiendish ways."
Harry's laughter was warm in his head.
"I'm not kidding, Potter," Draco said sulkily, stopping to catch his breath. "Dammit, I seem to be walking up the steepest hill ever."
Yes, Your Heinousness. Up the hill and down the hill and there I will be waiting. Harry's gentle voice was a lilting tune in the corners of his mind and he wondered if Harry was the singing type; he had a nice voice, anyway. Come towards the sun.
*
'On Love. When love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though his sword hidden among his pinions may wound you,
And when he speaks to you, believe him...
For as much as love crowns you so shall he crucify you...'
The hill that Draco was going down was treacherous in its quiet beauty. The ground was slippery with leaves. He had spent another humbling night in the trees, Harry's voice chatting to him until he fell into sleep. He was at the top of the hill at that time and when he stood on a branch and stretched a little, he could see another clearing at the foot of the forest; this one was massive and he had squinted a little, almost sure he could make out what looked like a lake... and a castle.
He stopped a for a little and held onto his side, stitches lacing his ribs. He was very hungry now and the thirst had returned, but Harry's voice kept pushing him forward (I'll be waiting) and if he really thought about it, he was pretty eager to get back to Hogwarts and eat about a thousand plates of food. He had been so eager that he had started off extremely early; the sun had not risen properly but he was making his way towards the lightening grey of the sky.
He wanted to see Harry.
That was a surprising thought; but not unwanted, Draco decided, starting his careful descent again.
"Have you ever been in love, Harry?" He asked suddenly, coming upon a broad band of ferns. Harry paused in his reading and he tried not to feel a deep anticipation of his answer.
I'm in love now. I think.
"I suppose it hurts to be in love, then."
Harry's laugh was careful and a little strained.
It feels painful, yeah. But... it isn't at the same time. You feel hopeful and a little bit desperate, I suppose.
"I see... and I see--I see the castle closer now!" Draco should have felt concerned at his own undignified whooping but the hill had levelled out and he caught glimpses of the clearing. He was nearly there.
I'm waiting, Draco.
He was jogging a little now, his feet were so tired and his stomach was cramping painfully; his robes were dirty and he was sure he smelled awful but he was almost home, just a few moments... just a few steps more.
As he burst out of the last line of the trees the sun rose fully and nearly blinded him; but he still made out a slight figure waiting by the lake, watching as Draco started to pelt straight towards them. The person was smiling, the sharp rays of the sun reflecting off glasses and setting the dark unruly hair on fire.
You're nearly there.
Draco was reaching out with his left hand and Harry had his own arm outstretched and Draco was home, he was home...
...and he came fully out of the strange half-coma the combination of spells had put him in, his eyes wide as he flailed in the hospital bed. Harry sat beside him, right on the thick mattress, grasping one of Draco's too-thin hands and rubbing it gently, murmuring words of nonsense. A deep part of Draco mourned that Potter's voice was now gone out of his mind. It still sounded wonderful, though.
"Oh, Potter. I thought he wouldn’t come back."
Draco turned his poor confused head to see Pansy biting her lip and rubbing her hands down the silky sleeves of her robe. Beside her, but not too close, Weasley and Granger were blinking at him from a large sofa, probably transfigured from one of the small chairs. Weasley looked slightly shell-shocked at Harry’s proximity to Draco and a little resigned as well.
"It's okay. You can go tell his mother that he's awake." Harry smiled tentatively at Draco as Pansy slipped quickly through the door. "I suppose you’re happy to have me out of your head now.” A slender book was on the bed, wedged between himself and Harry; as Harry shifted to move it, he saw it was the book Harry loved: The Prophet, curling golden letters announced, by Khalil Gibran.
Draco was blinking at him, oblivious to the small group of people, his mother included, peering inside the room's door. He also disregarded their shocked gasps when he leaned forward and pressed his mouth against Harry's curved lips, feeling his smile was warm as the sun, Harry's scent a cool undertone of mint.
"Yes, of course… now that I'm home," he muttered against Harry's mouth.
fin
The Prophet, by Khalil Gibran can be found online here
Author: megyal
Rating: PG-13
A/N: For serpentinelion’s Secrets and Wishes Fest for jamie2109, for this : "The story starts with Draco waking up, lost, somewhere in a forest... probably the Forbidden Forest. He has no idea where he is or how he got there. As he is blundering around trying to find his way home, he hears Harry’s voice in his head, telling him what to do. Which way to go, what things to eat, what to do to keep himself safe... things like that. Of course at first Draco doesn't believe him, but after a few things work, he does and listens to him. Along the way, they talk and get to know each other better and eventually, when Draco makes it out of the forest he goes and kisses Harry to the shock of all, except Harry. You can then make up how you want to explain it all."
Betas: winnettfics and mirrorwakes, who are incomparably patient.
When Love beckons to you, follow him
The first thing Draco felt was a sharp prickling in his back: tiny, spiky fingers poked through the material of his robes and scratched at his skin. He let out a long-suffering groan and sat up too quickly; his head swam in complaint. He opened his eyes gingerly and groaned again.
He was in a small clearing, massive aged trees lining its edges. The grass was tall around him, reaching his shoulder as the wind caused the green blades to brush against him curiously. There seemed to be a strange stillness in the air, a silence that was heavy around him. No bird-calls, no rustling hurry of animals. The strong rays of the sun fought through the thick canopy of leaves; it seemed that there were only a few more hours left in the day.
Draco sighed again and the grass commiserated. Standing as carefully as he dared, he tried to recall how he’d come here to this silent place. He poked at his memory and could only come up with an auditory glimpse: screams and desperate shouts. He patted at his sleeve for his wand, but its comforting shape wasn't there in the long slender pocket. Draco felt very close to spitting some choice words, but the stillness was forbidding.
Instantly, he decided that whatever this was, it was all Potter’s fault.
He began to walk to the edge of the clearing, stumbling a little before peering into the tranquil green silence amongst the trees. After a few moments of consideration, he stepped into the forest proper, holding back heavy branches and struggling through the lower bushes. The silence wasn’t that threatening, but he still felt unnerved by it.
"Hello?" he called, not quite sure who he was calling to or why; he had just felt the urge to break that stillness and he was starting to feel cranky. "Damn it, can anyone hear me?"
A single leaf floated from one of the high branches and Draco tracked its fall with wide eyes. It was a lovely leaf, green and full. There was no reason for it to fall, yet it had, turning over and over lazily, twisting in the air until it was almost right in front of him. Without realising what he was doing, he reached out a hand and it landed neatly in the centre of his palm.
Can you hear me?
Draco jumped at the sound of the voice. It seemed to come from all around him. He clenched the leaf in his fist, crushing it, causing it to give off a faint, familiar smell, but Draco was too startled to take note. He spun around as fast as he could, but there was no one near him at all. He tried to calm his breathing, but the voice had been too clear to be mistaken; it seemed as if someone had spoken right in his ear.
Draco. Can you hear me? Please, tell me you can.
"Potter?" Draco's voice was a hoarse whisper. The leaf in his hand was almost crushed to pieces and Draco noticed a faint smell of mint. "What the fuck?"
Can you come back?
"What? Where are you? Whatever, I don’t care. I don't know what you think you're doing, but there’s something important going on, called a battle. Lives! They are in the balance. Stop wasting my time.”
There was a lengthy pause and Draco felt his temper start to boil.
"Potter! Stop playing around. Come out from where you're hiding and let's get back to the castle. If you've left the Weasel and that werewolf in charge I will personally tear you to pieces." The silence seemed to become amused and Draco ground his teeth. "Pieces," he promised darkly.
The war is over. There is no more Voldemort.
"That's not very funny, Potter," Draco said quietly. "You know about my mother--"
She's here. She's waiting for you to come back.
Draco had an unpleasant suspicion -- this was most certainly a trap. Someone had charmed his voice to sound like Potter and now he was going to lure him into a trap and kill him; after all that trouble to defect to the damn-blasted side of Light, he was going to die at the hands of a former colleague. The world did not like him. At all.
It's not a trick. It's really me, Harry. Just... come back, please.
Draco clamped his hands over his ears and shook his head.
"Get out of my head, whoever you are. Get the fuck out."
He strode along as fast as he could, feeling his robes being caught by sharp brambles, trying to keep his hands pressed to ears.
*
"Fuck!" Draco screamed as he came upon the clearing for the fifth time. The sun was nearly ready to set and he was thirsty, cold and very tired. He was walking in circles and the silence that had seemed non-threatening before had taken on a more sinister tone.
You're lost.
"Yes, well, tell me something I don't know," Draco hissed, standing of the middle of the clearing, exactly where he had regained consciousness earlier. He glared at the flattened shape in the grass that his body had created, rubbing his eyes. He was a full-fledged wizard by anyone’s standards, but he felt like a small child right then: he just wanted to go home.
Let me help. I can, you know.
"Right, because if you were really Potter, also known as He Who Has Lost His Comb, you’d have me out of here in two shakes of a hero’s wand." Draco shoved his hands up his sleeves and rubbed his arms; the air was getting cold. "And I don't believe that you're Potter, in any case. So do me a favour and piss off, thanks."
There was a long pause and Draco was thinking that the impostor had finally gone for good when the pseudo-Harry began again. Draco rolled his eyes.
You reach for the Snitch with your left hand, although you write with your right. I've always thought that was a strange thing. Your mother says that your favourite chocolate is a Muggle one... Ferrero Rocher. You told Parkinson once that your favourite colour is really red but you'd die before anyone else found out--
"Yes, like now. Remind me to kill Pansy when next I see her," Draco muttered and Potter chuckled.
When you came to us, your hair was long, past your shoulders, I guess… and you cut it off. Short, like it was back in school. Everyone thought you did it to look less like your father. Which… made sense, I suppose.
Draco closed his eyes, clenched at his arms and tried not to think of his father. How alike they looked on the damp field, even with his hair shorn so short.
You know it's me.
"Fine," Draco snapped and removed one of his arms from the warm sleeve to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Fine, fine, Potter, you're in my head, I'm lost in a forest and you know the way out. You can start being helpful sometime soon. The sun is about to set."
Let's not move for now. You need to find somewhere safe to be. Maybe climb a tree.
"Wow," Draco said sourly. "A Malfoy in a tree. Abraxas is rolling in his grave."
*
Draco thought he wouldn’t get any sleep during the night. The silence of the day became an ominous presence at dusk, even more disturbing than the former quiet. It seemed he was stuck in a forest from which all the animals had been erased and he did not like the implications of this. The tree Potter told him to choose had its limbs growing close together, creating a sort of natural platform at different intervals along the length of its trunk. He scratched his hands while breaking some thick bushes to lay over the branches, creating a small platform. Climbing up and down the tree exhausted him, but he finally had enough space covered so he could spread his cloak over the bushes and gingerly lie down, near to the trunk of the tree about thirty feet off the ground. His makeshift bed held; deep-down he was delighted at his handiwork.
From where he lay, all he could see was the golden light of the sunset making lovely patterns all around him. He breathed carefully, his hands folded under his head; he could still smell the mint of the leaf he had crushed in the skin of his palm.
Are you alright?
"I’ll live." Draco bit his lip. "Potter... is... is my mother still there with you?”
No. She can't stay all the time. But she’s here a lot… and I'll be here, as long as you want.
"I'm touched," Draco said dryly to hide his relief as the light around him changed, fading. "I don't hear any animals around me, Potter. That could be a bad thing, or a very bad thing. I wager they’re waiting for me to fall sleep so they can pounce on me and savour my delicate flesh."
Delica--? I won’t even go there, Draco, seriously. And it’s alright. Where you are is safe.
"How can you be sure?" Draco said, shivering a little and drawing the end of his cloak over his shoulder. "You're not even here, I don’t even know where you are, so how the hell can you know? This is really not fair."
I know. Harry's voice was gentle. But I'm here. Try to rest.
"I can't," Draco fussed, trying to find a comfortable spot, the branches of the tree rubbing knobbly ridges against his back and ribs. "It's far too early for my bedtime, really, and there's this branch sticking in my knee, it's going to leave a bloody bruise, oh Merlin--"
Um…okay. I can read something to you, if you want. Its one of my favourite books: The Prophet. Not the paper, I know you're going to point that out, so be quiet. A Muggle wrote this.
Draco, who had opened his mouth to berate Harry for reading him the news in the midst of his troubles, closed it.
It's about this Prophet who went to speak to a bunch of people and they asked him to talk to them on different topics, like a school of life, or something. This is from the chapter, ‘On Freedom’.
Draco heard Harry clear his throat gently and start to read in slow measured tones.
'And how shall you rise beyond your days and nights unless you break the chains which you at the dawn of your understanding have fastened around your noon hour? ...and what is it but fragments of your own self you would discard that you may be free?'
"Yes, alright. Lovely… what does that even mean?" Draco asked, not realising that he spoke in a drowsy manner. He could literally feel Harry ponder this in his mind and wondered fleetingly just how he’d gotten there in the first place.
I think it means that you're the only person who can free yourself. You're the one who has to be willing to make the change.
Draco thought about how he had agonised over the decisions he had made, especially those that had gone contrary to his father's choices. All his life, who he was had been defined by his name, his acquaintances and even Potter. In those instances when he’d sat down and tried to think deeply, for himself, he had been simply Draco.
In those moments he liked to think that he had been free. No Malfoy should be a captive to anyone or anything; and begrudgingly he admitted that if anyone could help keep him free and not have him or his mother or his friends indebted, then that would be Potter and his little Order.
He even found that his intense dislike (Pansy called it an obsessive emotional disturbance) for Potter had tempered itself into a slight loathing and then into what most warring countries called a truce; he referred to it as his burden to bear as Potter gave him furtive, questioning looks during Order meetings.
"I think I understand," he said sleepily and fell into the arms of slumber, only vaguely noting that Harry had replied.
Yes. I think I do, too.
*
Draco awoke from a dream that had been terrifying in its realism. In it, he saw Potter, his mouth a thin pale line in his face, the right side of his head a bloody, ashy mess as spells flew about them. He had seen a figure dressed in pale robes materialise behind Potter as they fought in a devastated field, pointing an ethereal wand at his back. Without thinking, Draco moved in front of the path of fire and Harry had turned, also pointing. The first spell had hit him with excruciating pain; but before he could open his mouth to scream, Harry's spell had soothed over his whole body.
He opened his eyes blearily, stretching to get the stiffness out of his limbs.
Ah, you're up, Harry piped up in his head and Draco nearly fell out of his tree in alarm.
"Potter, I’m going to ask you not to do that again." Draco clutched at his robe and shuddered in the crisp morning air. "I nearly fell out of the tree and broke my neck. It's a wonderful neck; it would have been a terrible loss."
Agreed, Harry said amiably. Can you see what direction the sun is rising in? If you can, you have to go straight that way.
"I'm thirsty... and hungry. No breakfast?" Draco climbed down the tree as carefully as he had climbed up, brushing the leaves out of his hair and smacking his mouth in distaste; how he wished for his wand so he could perform a Cleaning Charm on his teeth; hell, he was desperate enough for that alarmingly bristly Mugglestick that he’d heard someone call a Teethbrusher.
There's a river nearby, I believe.
"You don't sound too sure," Draco pointed out, squinting at the sun and heading out in the direction from which it seemed to emerge. He plunged into the cool of the forest, walking swiftly so that if he came upon the clearing again, he could get over his disappointment quicker.
I'm positive there is. Aren't you? It's just ahead, you know as well as I.
"You're talking like you’ve fallen into a vat of Firewhiskey. I feel ill just listening to you," Draco said without any heat at all. "And I’m still waiting to see this so-called river, Potter, yet-"
He stopped suddenly and cocked his head in the silence. He heard something, a cheerful bubbling sound some ways ahead.
Can't you hear it? It's not too far. Go and drink.
Draco hesitated. He hadn’t moved, yet the sound of the stream grew louder as soon as Potter said 'drink'. He bit his lip; the parched feeling in the back of his throat grew with a dry strength.
Trust me. I trusted you, right? Trust me in this. It's close and you have to keep moving when you're finished... move towards the sun.
Draco took a few tentative steps forward, the silence in the air pressing all about him and without warning, the trees seemed to thin. He almost fell right into the broad river, light glinting off its smooth surface. He looked up and down its banks but the same lonely atmosphere pervaded the whole scene. The river spoke to him now, its voice sweet in the quiet air.
Draco took off his over robe and struggled with his shirt underneath. He knelt by the water's edge and eyed it carefully. Shrugging, he cupped his hands and splashed his face, gasping at the chill of it. He stood and took off the rest of his clothes without stopping to think, slung them over a low tree-limb, and waded directly into the cold water.
He went in up to his chest, tilting his face towards the sun and dipping completely under. He felt like the last person on earth.
"I'm all alone," he murmured and Harry made a sharp noise in his head.
No. I'm here, remember? Besides... there's nothing wrong with being alone.
"Is that so?" Draco submerged himself again, opening his eyes as he tried to sit on the bed of the river. The water, which had seemed entirely opaque on top, had a strange sea-green transparency underneath. Potter's voice was still in his head, seeming to echo in the water.
Yeah... a lot of people think that being alone is bad. There are all sides to being alone... like, alright, loneliness is awful. It feels like there's no-one else to care about what happens to you. But solitude... it can be glorious.
Draco came up and gasped a little for air. It had been a long time since he’d done that.
"Sounds like you like the solitude, Potter," Draco said carefully, trying to float on his back. To his delight, it worked. His slim frame was pale in the silver of the river, his hair gossamer strands around his head.
I treasure it, actually. And you don't really have to be alone to have solitude... I think you can be in the same room with someone who understands the need… they don't have to talk to you and disturb the peace of mind you're trying to build up for yourself.
"And I supposed you've found someone like that already. Potter, you vile man. You’ve now broken many a heart. And here I thought my perfection would have worn you down in the end." Draco didn’t know why he was teasing Potter while he waded back to the still shore, but it was worth actually feeling Harry's blush in his mind, before a soft laugh filtered through.
Yes, Draco, because everyone knows you talk your head off, especially when no-one wants to hear you… although I’ve seen where you can be quiet when you want to be. And no… I haven’t found someone as yet... not really.
Draco tilted his head curiously, allowing the sun to dry his skin.
“Does your Prophet say anything about that? About talking, I mean.”
Yes. He does…wait a moment… ‘On Talking: You talk when you cease to be at peace with your thoughts; And when you can no longer dwell in the solitude of your heart you live in your lips, and sound is a diversion and a pastime. And in much of your talking, thinking is half murdered. For thought is a bird of space, that in a cage of words many indeed unfold its wings but cannot fly. There are those among you who seek the talkative through fear of being alone.’
Draco folded his lips in and remembered how his mother had told him once that he liked to hear the sound of his own voice. He had told her that it was a very nice voice and she simply smiled at him. But it wasn’t that he was afraid of being alone! Sure, he knew that chattering snidely in Potter’s ear annoyed him no end… at least, it used to annoy him. Nowadays, Draco found that he would receive a small amused look in response to his low comments during meetings. Draco shook his head and tried to forget smiling green eyes.
"Towards the rising sun, yes?"
Yeah. You'll be home soon.
*
'On Good and Evil', Harry read from his Muggle book as Draco picked his way through the forest, the sun at his back; he was munching on some red berries that Harry had given a mental thumbs up to eat when Draco had described them. It seemed to be a lush summer now, here in his forest and Draco wondered exactly which part of the world he was in... and how he had arrived. Harry had not been too forthcoming with that. Instead Harry continued to read: 'You are good in countless ways and you are not evil when you are not good...’ oh and listen to this part, Draco ‘...you are good when you strive to give of yourself yet you are not evil when you seek gain for yourself.'
There was a thoughtful silence as Draco picked his way over a mossy pile of fallen trees.
The first time I read that, we had just come off one of our first battles and I thought of you... you're so not good, Draco, but you're not evil.
"What!?" Draco yelled, his voice vibrating in the stillness. "I am downright malevolent. I will make your hair curl with my fiendish ways."
Harry's laughter was warm in his head.
"I'm not kidding, Potter," Draco said sulkily, stopping to catch his breath. "Dammit, I seem to be walking up the steepest hill ever."
Yes, Your Heinousness. Up the hill and down the hill and there I will be waiting. Harry's gentle voice was a lilting tune in the corners of his mind and he wondered if Harry was the singing type; he had a nice voice, anyway. Come towards the sun.
*
'On Love. When love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though his sword hidden among his pinions may wound you,
And when he speaks to you, believe him...
For as much as love crowns you so shall he crucify you...'
The hill that Draco was going down was treacherous in its quiet beauty. The ground was slippery with leaves. He had spent another humbling night in the trees, Harry's voice chatting to him until he fell into sleep. He was at the top of the hill at that time and when he stood on a branch and stretched a little, he could see another clearing at the foot of the forest; this one was massive and he had squinted a little, almost sure he could make out what looked like a lake... and a castle.
He stopped a for a little and held onto his side, stitches lacing his ribs. He was very hungry now and the thirst had returned, but Harry's voice kept pushing him forward (I'll be waiting) and if he really thought about it, he was pretty eager to get back to Hogwarts and eat about a thousand plates of food. He had been so eager that he had started off extremely early; the sun had not risen properly but he was making his way towards the lightening grey of the sky.
He wanted to see Harry.
That was a surprising thought; but not unwanted, Draco decided, starting his careful descent again.
"Have you ever been in love, Harry?" He asked suddenly, coming upon a broad band of ferns. Harry paused in his reading and he tried not to feel a deep anticipation of his answer.
I'm in love now. I think.
"I suppose it hurts to be in love, then."
Harry's laugh was careful and a little strained.
It feels painful, yeah. But... it isn't at the same time. You feel hopeful and a little bit desperate, I suppose.
"I see... and I see--I see the castle closer now!" Draco should have felt concerned at his own undignified whooping but the hill had levelled out and he caught glimpses of the clearing. He was nearly there.
I'm waiting, Draco.
He was jogging a little now, his feet were so tired and his stomach was cramping painfully; his robes were dirty and he was sure he smelled awful but he was almost home, just a few moments... just a few steps more.
As he burst out of the last line of the trees the sun rose fully and nearly blinded him; but he still made out a slight figure waiting by the lake, watching as Draco started to pelt straight towards them. The person was smiling, the sharp rays of the sun reflecting off glasses and setting the dark unruly hair on fire.
You're nearly there.
Draco was reaching out with his left hand and Harry had his own arm outstretched and Draco was home, he was home...
...and he came fully out of the strange half-coma the combination of spells had put him in, his eyes wide as he flailed in the hospital bed. Harry sat beside him, right on the thick mattress, grasping one of Draco's too-thin hands and rubbing it gently, murmuring words of nonsense. A deep part of Draco mourned that Potter's voice was now gone out of his mind. It still sounded wonderful, though.
"Oh, Potter. I thought he wouldn’t come back."
Draco turned his poor confused head to see Pansy biting her lip and rubbing her hands down the silky sleeves of her robe. Beside her, but not too close, Weasley and Granger were blinking at him from a large sofa, probably transfigured from one of the small chairs. Weasley looked slightly shell-shocked at Harry’s proximity to Draco and a little resigned as well.
"It's okay. You can go tell his mother that he's awake." Harry smiled tentatively at Draco as Pansy slipped quickly through the door. "I suppose you’re happy to have me out of your head now.” A slender book was on the bed, wedged between himself and Harry; as Harry shifted to move it, he saw it was the book Harry loved: The Prophet, curling golden letters announced, by Khalil Gibran.
Draco was blinking at him, oblivious to the small group of people, his mother included, peering inside the room's door. He also disregarded their shocked gasps when he leaned forward and pressed his mouth against Harry's curved lips, feeling his smile was warm as the sun, Harry's scent a cool undertone of mint.
"Yes, of course… now that I'm home," he muttered against Harry's mouth.
fin
The Prophet, by Khalil Gibran can be found online here