Harry Potter: Untitled
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Notes: written for kawaifox13, based on the prompt: "porn, potato chips, nepal, plastic mattress, cumberbund."
Date: January 2005
Something like six months of planning and Harry's still amazed at how fast it actually happens. Nearly 80 witches and wizards disappear overnight, bleeding out of their lives and arriving in The Compound.
The Compound, the whole plan itself was Hermione's idea, her baby. She'd found a spell, something old and powerful just this side of forgivable. "I saw this movie once," she'd said, her voice rising and rising as she got excited, "about these Muggles from the sixties who all went underground, and they said it's about controlling information. We're just controlling a little bit more."
The inside of The Compound is bigger than the outside - a run-down farmhouse outside of Glasgow of all places - by a mind-boggling amount. 90 bedrooms, 20 bathrooms, an industrial-sized kitchen, hiding places, rooms filled with maps and Muggle explosives, enough to keep an army running. Each person has their own room: stark white walls, a cheap wardrobe, a simple bed-frame and plastic mattress, a mirror, a sink. Every person brought with them 2 suitcases of clothes and necessities and 1 personal luxury item. Most people, Harry figures, brought porn. They're only kids, after all.
Hermione's spell, by the time she's done fixing it, is a work of art. Outside of The Compound, no one has a name, everyone's identity is lost into the gray area of forgetfulness. You could walk up to your husband and he'd think he remembered you as that nice girl he knew at university, who maybe went away to immunize orphans in Nepal. And he'd forget you the moment you left his sight.
Neville and Ginny run the day-to-day living, cooking and cleaning and stitching everyone up. Ginny has a strange fondness for American casseroles, and at least once a week works up giant vats of tuna-fish and noodles with crunched-up crisps sprinkled over the top. Harry usually makes himself a sandwich.
The hardest part is leaving everything behind. The people in The Compound left everything when they saw the sign, different for each person: Harry saw a snow-white owl carrying a blue jay, Ron's mother asked him if he'd mind watering the petunias, Ginny tripped over a stuffed wolf in the middle of her living room. Justin had been trying on the tux for his wedding, choosing between a red or maroon cummerbund when he packed up and left, his fiancée forgetting him by the next morning.
Between one breath and the next, Harry left Draco, like he'd never been there at all. For the greater good, Harry knows now. Everything's working like clockwork, they're winning the war, everything according to plan. But still, Harry thinks, watching people in The Compound interacting with each other, close-but-not-too-close, it's so much to ask.
Notes: written for kawaifox13, based on the prompt: "porn, potato chips, nepal, plastic mattress, cumberbund."
Date: January 2005
Something like six months of planning and Harry's still amazed at how fast it actually happens. Nearly 80 witches and wizards disappear overnight, bleeding out of their lives and arriving in The Compound.
The Compound, the whole plan itself was Hermione's idea, her baby. She'd found a spell, something old and powerful just this side of forgivable. "I saw this movie once," she'd said, her voice rising and rising as she got excited, "about these Muggles from the sixties who all went underground, and they said it's about controlling information. We're just controlling a little bit more."
The inside of The Compound is bigger than the outside - a run-down farmhouse outside of Glasgow of all places - by a mind-boggling amount. 90 bedrooms, 20 bathrooms, an industrial-sized kitchen, hiding places, rooms filled with maps and Muggle explosives, enough to keep an army running. Each person has their own room: stark white walls, a cheap wardrobe, a simple bed-frame and plastic mattress, a mirror, a sink. Every person brought with them 2 suitcases of clothes and necessities and 1 personal luxury item. Most people, Harry figures, brought porn. They're only kids, after all.
Hermione's spell, by the time she's done fixing it, is a work of art. Outside of The Compound, no one has a name, everyone's identity is lost into the gray area of forgetfulness. You could walk up to your husband and he'd think he remembered you as that nice girl he knew at university, who maybe went away to immunize orphans in Nepal. And he'd forget you the moment you left his sight.
Neville and Ginny run the day-to-day living, cooking and cleaning and stitching everyone up. Ginny has a strange fondness for American casseroles, and at least once a week works up giant vats of tuna-fish and noodles with crunched-up crisps sprinkled over the top. Harry usually makes himself a sandwich.
The hardest part is leaving everything behind. The people in The Compound left everything when they saw the sign, different for each person: Harry saw a snow-white owl carrying a blue jay, Ron's mother asked him if he'd mind watering the petunias, Ginny tripped over a stuffed wolf in the middle of her living room. Justin had been trying on the tux for his wedding, choosing between a red or maroon cummerbund when he packed up and left, his fiancée forgetting him by the next morning.
Between one breath and the next, Harry left Draco, like he'd never been there at all. For the greater good, Harry knows now. Everything's working like clockwork, they're winning the war, everything according to plan. But still, Harry thinks, watching people in The Compound interacting with each other, close-but-not-too-close, it's so much to ask.