FIC: For in our great sorrow, we learn what joy means (Harry/Draco - 1719 - PG)
Title: For in our great sorrow, we learn what joy means
Author/Artist: ANON
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco
Prompt: From 2010: (120) “Harry and Draco’s first Christmas post-war”, (18) “A well placed red ribbon”
Word Count/Art Medium: 1,719
Rating: PG
Contains (Highlight to view): Implied PTSD.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: EWE; based on the prompts, it was important to me to keep the story authentic, yet, provide some sense of hope for Harry and Draco as they move through post-war life together. Title comes from ‘Sorrow’ by Sleeping at Last.
Summary: The remnants of the war stained Harry and Draco’s first Christmas, shadows of dark forces pulling them apart, uprooting them from the earth -- viciously, aimlessly -- thrusting them into the polluted atmosphere of their inescapable memories.
“Mmph,” Harry muttered against the pillowcase, reaching across the mattress with splayed fingers, wanting to touch some still-foreign patch of Draco’s skin. Disappointment crept onto Harry’s face and settled in the somewhat unruly nest of his dark brows once he touched the empty, cold mattress. He sighed, propping himself up with one elbow, the covers falling away, leaving him cold and exposed.
Draco was perched on the windowsill of the Gryffindor common room, a cup of coffee cradled in his lap. His eyes focused on the vast whiteness blanketing the Hogwarts grounds. He looked almost ethereal in this light.
“Draco - you all right?” Harry asked, between yawns, as he shuffled over to sit opposite Draco, a hand ruffling his own hair.
“My mother,” Draco whispered, “this is her first Christmas alone,” he finished, voice measured, tight - threatening a collapse if Harry asked him another question, no matter how inconsequential.
Harry stood then, unable to bear witness to the pain, the regret, the guilt that was etched in every line, dip, crevice of Draco’s face. He stepped closer to Draco, leaning and placing a kiss on his temple.
“Draco,” Harry whispered, lips parted against the patch of skin. “We’ll go see her if that’s what you want.” Draco leaned into his touch, a soft whimper escaping his throat, enveloped by a ring of air, eventually settling onto the glass windowpane, caught in the moment, captive to December’s chill.
-
Harry and Draco had been at Hogwarts since late August, assisting McGonagall and the others with post-war renovations. Draco returned because it was part of his community service if he wished to stay free of Azkaban’s clutches. Harry testified on behalf of Draco and his mother at the trials - and, in truth, that was the beginning of the end for Draco. He knew something between them had shifted, monumentally, as he watched Harry make a case for his freedom - assuring the ministry that tethering himself to his family, risking everything to keep them safe, alive - no matter the cost - is not an act of cowardice, of selfishness, but of bravery.
‘I would have done the same’, he’d said.
When all was said and done, it was Harry who offered Draco his hand. Draco accepted with an equally firm shake, brushing his thumb across Harry’s before releasing his grip.
If Harry held his hand for a beat longer than necessary, Draco said nothing.
Monumental shift.
-
Neither of them is sure of the exact moment when they became more. However, there are several possibilities - the early autumn morning on the grass of the Quidditch pitch, Harry reaching for Draco’s hand and linking their fingers together; the two of them welcoming the November midnight on the top floor of the astronomy tower, Draco leaning his head against Harry’s shoulder as Harry whispered that it wasn’t Draco’s fault, Harry threading his fingers through Draco’s golden-blonde hair; the night an accidental potions experiment went wrong, coating both of their hands in a blue-tinged liquid, Draco swiping his finger across Harry’s cheek - ‘face paint is all the rage these days, Harry.’ a mischievous glint flashing in his eyes before Harry returned the favor, brushing his finger along Draco’s lower lip. This, of course, was followed by breathy ‘let’s get out of here’s’, Draco pushing Harry up against the wall of the Gryffindor common room, the feeling of Harry opening for him, granting him permission to plunder whatever he wished - threatened to become Draco’s undoing, the cure for an ailment he was unaware he possessed.
-
Draco woke in the early morning hours to Harry’s muffled screams, their legs still tangled together. His lips were tinged with blood, strands of black hair were matted to his forehead, heavy with sweat.
'Go. Save Draco.' Harry mouthed, opening his palm, revealing the resurrection stone to Narcissa.
“Dead,” her voice echoed, bouncing off of the trees in the Forbidden Forest, as she turned and walked toward Voldemort. She saved her son, and Harry, too.
Draco turned to face Harry, whispers of ‘shhh’s’ and ‘I’ve got you’s’ echoing throughout the room, his hand pushing the matted hair from Harry’s forehead. At the touch, Harry’s eyes snapped open - wild, alive - trying to focus on the warmth of Draco’s voice, the cool touch of his hand.
“Your mum, she -” Harry choked, “- saved me. For you.”
“Hmm?” Draco asked, perplexed. There was something so sweet, innocent about his tone. Harry wanted to drown in it.
Harry took a deep breath. “I told her to go and save you. I knew that Voldemort had you buried under his thumb. I wanted you to get out, and I didn’t know why.”
Draco nodded, moonlight illuminating a section of his face. Harry could just make out the sharp angle of his jawline.
Harry leaned forward and kissed the corner of Draco’s mouth. The taste of his blood sharp, raw on Draco’s bottom lip -- he jerked away. Draco inhaled, swiping his tongue across the blood stain, before pulling Harry to him.
This time, it was Draco who opened for Harry -- allowing himself to drown in Harry’s needy embrace, revealing hidden caverns of memories, pain, and secrets -- squeezing his eyes shut all the while. He prayed that Harry wouldn’t pull away.
He didn’t.
Draco fell asleep with Harry’s essence still weaving through his veins, pre-war memories filling his mind: sitting on his mother’s lap in front of the hearth, chasing ducks around the manor grounds, the first time he rode a broom -- the first night he met Harry Potter.
-
Three days passed before Draco received an owl from his mother.
The teacup shattering against the hardwood, its pieces releasing their painful cry, jerked Harry from the lull of scalding water droplets soaking into his skin. As he stepped from the bathroom, he found Draco, curled in on himself, knees to chest underneath the windowsill, rocking with heavy breaths.
“Draco,” Harry whispered, carefully kneeling beside him.
“Draco,” Harry tried again, his fingers ghosting along the side of Draco’s face. A hollow expression buried beneath the depths of his gray eyes. Harry reached across his lithe body, tracing the scars that inked his chest. Slowly, Draco came back to him.
“It took her three days,” Draco muttered before tossing the parchment towards Harry carelessly:
“Dearest Draco - You are welcome to come home for the holidays, but do come alone. There are matters I wish to discuss with you.”
Harry’s eyes scanned the parchment, wincing at the chill behind her words.
-
The following morning, Harry and Draco stood beneath the snow-covered grounds on the Hogwarts courtyard, bodies flush against each other to stay tethered to the earth.
“Here,” Harry breathed, his forehead pressed against Draco’s, as he pulled a red ribbon from his coat pocket.
Draco stared incredulously at the ribbon in Harry’s palm.
“What is -” Draco started, as Harry tied the ribbon around his wrist.
“Fidelis,” Harry whispered, blush coloring his cheeks, his deeply buried secrets twining themselves within the red ribbon.
“You’re never alone, Draco.”
Draco thrust himself forward and kissed Harry as though he was born for it - the moment infinite.
-
Harry’s voice led Draco to the remnants of his pre-war life, the notes of Lilly’s lullabies vibrating lightly against his skin as he walked.
The moment he stepped through the doors of the manor, Draco knew.
He didn’t deserve Harry. He never would.
A numbing cold seized Draco’s muscles as he attempted to move about the house - walls echoing the cries of the dead.
-
Draco’s soft cries for Narcissa, caught between realities, was too much for Harry to bear. He shook Draco awake, lips pressing against his bare shoulder.
“Harry?” Draco mumbled, voice soft and thick with sleep. “Where is my mother?”
A sigh escaped Harry’s lips as he met Draco’s eyes. Pieces of his heart shattered, clanking against his rib cage, the painful sound buzzing his body’s cavity before falling into the abyss.
“Draco,” Harry paused. “She’s dead.”
Draco shook his head vigorously, squeezing his eyes shut, disbelief coloring his features.
“No. Harry. No, no, no. I wrote to her. It took three days to receive a reply -- a terse one, but a reply no less. Don’t you remember?”
Harry bit his lip and lifted his palm to stroke Draco’s cheek, the rhythm of his touch implanting protective promises underneath Draco’s skin.
“I don’t, love.”
Draco looked down at his wrist. The dark mark was there, but --
“The red ribbon. It’s gone. Harry,” Draco panicked, untangling himself from Harry and flinging the bed covers off. “Harry, the ribbon. In the courtyard. Did you take it off of me?” Draco’s eyes were wild, unfocused.
Harry shook his head as tears began to prickle in his eyes, obscuring his vision.
“There’s no red ribbon, Draco.”
Draco recoiled as Harry tried to touch him. There was nothing worse than this. Harry hated Voldemort for doing this to them -- tearing pieces of flesh from their beating, youthful hearts, the empty caverns filling with figments of their imagination.
“You’re never alone, you know that, right?” Harry whispered, reaching for Draco’s hand, threading their fingers together.
This was real. They were real.
“Harry.”
Slowly, Draco came back to him.
-
The remnants of the war-stained their first Christmas, shadows of dark forces pulling them apart, uprooting them from the earth -- viciously, aimlessly -- thrusting them into the polluted atmosphere of their inescapable memories.
There were times when Harry and Draco lay tangled together in their bed, that Harry woke with a start. A strip of his skin illuminated by the moon -- Dumbledore’s voice filling his hollow bones with a whispered lumos, his figure perched on the bench of King’s Cross, the warmth of his smile patching up the tears Voldemort created.
Inspired, Harry planted kisses on patches of Draco’s skin -- the seeds silently screaming for sustenance -- longing for reminders of what life used to be, of what theirs could become.
Author/Artist: ANON
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco
Prompt: From 2010: (120) “Harry and Draco’s first Christmas post-war”, (18) “A well placed red ribbon”
Word Count/Art Medium: 1,719
Rating: PG
Contains (Highlight to view): Implied PTSD.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: EWE; based on the prompts, it was important to me to keep the story authentic, yet, provide some sense of hope for Harry and Draco as they move through post-war life together. Title comes from ‘Sorrow’ by Sleeping at Last.
Summary: The remnants of the war stained Harry and Draco’s first Christmas, shadows of dark forces pulling them apart, uprooting them from the earth -- viciously, aimlessly -- thrusting them into the polluted atmosphere of their inescapable memories.
“Mmph,” Harry muttered against the pillowcase, reaching across the mattress with splayed fingers, wanting to touch some still-foreign patch of Draco’s skin. Disappointment crept onto Harry’s face and settled in the somewhat unruly nest of his dark brows once he touched the empty, cold mattress. He sighed, propping himself up with one elbow, the covers falling away, leaving him cold and exposed.
Draco was perched on the windowsill of the Gryffindor common room, a cup of coffee cradled in his lap. His eyes focused on the vast whiteness blanketing the Hogwarts grounds. He looked almost ethereal in this light.
“Draco - you all right?” Harry asked, between yawns, as he shuffled over to sit opposite Draco, a hand ruffling his own hair.
“My mother,” Draco whispered, “this is her first Christmas alone,” he finished, voice measured, tight - threatening a collapse if Harry asked him another question, no matter how inconsequential.
Harry stood then, unable to bear witness to the pain, the regret, the guilt that was etched in every line, dip, crevice of Draco’s face. He stepped closer to Draco, leaning and placing a kiss on his temple.
“Draco,” Harry whispered, lips parted against the patch of skin. “We’ll go see her if that’s what you want.” Draco leaned into his touch, a soft whimper escaping his throat, enveloped by a ring of air, eventually settling onto the glass windowpane, caught in the moment, captive to December’s chill.
-
Harry and Draco had been at Hogwarts since late August, assisting McGonagall and the others with post-war renovations. Draco returned because it was part of his community service if he wished to stay free of Azkaban’s clutches. Harry testified on behalf of Draco and his mother at the trials - and, in truth, that was the beginning of the end for Draco. He knew something between them had shifted, monumentally, as he watched Harry make a case for his freedom - assuring the ministry that tethering himself to his family, risking everything to keep them safe, alive - no matter the cost - is not an act of cowardice, of selfishness, but of bravery.
‘I would have done the same’, he’d said.
When all was said and done, it was Harry who offered Draco his hand. Draco accepted with an equally firm shake, brushing his thumb across Harry’s before releasing his grip.
If Harry held his hand for a beat longer than necessary, Draco said nothing.
Monumental shift.
-
Neither of them is sure of the exact moment when they became more. However, there are several possibilities - the early autumn morning on the grass of the Quidditch pitch, Harry reaching for Draco’s hand and linking their fingers together; the two of them welcoming the November midnight on the top floor of the astronomy tower, Draco leaning his head against Harry’s shoulder as Harry whispered that it wasn’t Draco’s fault, Harry threading his fingers through Draco’s golden-blonde hair; the night an accidental potions experiment went wrong, coating both of their hands in a blue-tinged liquid, Draco swiping his finger across Harry’s cheek - ‘face paint is all the rage these days, Harry.’ a mischievous glint flashing in his eyes before Harry returned the favor, brushing his finger along Draco’s lower lip. This, of course, was followed by breathy ‘let’s get out of here’s’, Draco pushing Harry up against the wall of the Gryffindor common room, the feeling of Harry opening for him, granting him permission to plunder whatever he wished - threatened to become Draco’s undoing, the cure for an ailment he was unaware he possessed.
-
Draco woke in the early morning hours to Harry’s muffled screams, their legs still tangled together. His lips were tinged with blood, strands of black hair were matted to his forehead, heavy with sweat.
'Go. Save Draco.' Harry mouthed, opening his palm, revealing the resurrection stone to Narcissa.
“Dead,” her voice echoed, bouncing off of the trees in the Forbidden Forest, as she turned and walked toward Voldemort. She saved her son, and Harry, too.
Draco turned to face Harry, whispers of ‘shhh’s’ and ‘I’ve got you’s’ echoing throughout the room, his hand pushing the matted hair from Harry’s forehead. At the touch, Harry’s eyes snapped open - wild, alive - trying to focus on the warmth of Draco’s voice, the cool touch of his hand.
“Your mum, she -” Harry choked, “- saved me. For you.”
“Hmm?” Draco asked, perplexed. There was something so sweet, innocent about his tone. Harry wanted to drown in it.
Harry took a deep breath. “I told her to go and save you. I knew that Voldemort had you buried under his thumb. I wanted you to get out, and I didn’t know why.”
Draco nodded, moonlight illuminating a section of his face. Harry could just make out the sharp angle of his jawline.
Harry leaned forward and kissed the corner of Draco’s mouth. The taste of his blood sharp, raw on Draco’s bottom lip -- he jerked away. Draco inhaled, swiping his tongue across the blood stain, before pulling Harry to him.
This time, it was Draco who opened for Harry -- allowing himself to drown in Harry’s needy embrace, revealing hidden caverns of memories, pain, and secrets -- squeezing his eyes shut all the while. He prayed that Harry wouldn’t pull away.
He didn’t.
Draco fell asleep with Harry’s essence still weaving through his veins, pre-war memories filling his mind: sitting on his mother’s lap in front of the hearth, chasing ducks around the manor grounds, the first time he rode a broom -- the first night he met Harry Potter.
-
Three days passed before Draco received an owl from his mother.
The teacup shattering against the hardwood, its pieces releasing their painful cry, jerked Harry from the lull of scalding water droplets soaking into his skin. As he stepped from the bathroom, he found Draco, curled in on himself, knees to chest underneath the windowsill, rocking with heavy breaths.
“Draco,” Harry whispered, carefully kneeling beside him.
“Draco,” Harry tried again, his fingers ghosting along the side of Draco’s face. A hollow expression buried beneath the depths of his gray eyes. Harry reached across his lithe body, tracing the scars that inked his chest. Slowly, Draco came back to him.
“It took her three days,” Draco muttered before tossing the parchment towards Harry carelessly:
“Dearest Draco - You are welcome to come home for the holidays, but do come alone. There are matters I wish to discuss with you.”
Harry’s eyes scanned the parchment, wincing at the chill behind her words.
-
The following morning, Harry and Draco stood beneath the snow-covered grounds on the Hogwarts courtyard, bodies flush against each other to stay tethered to the earth.
“Here,” Harry breathed, his forehead pressed against Draco’s, as he pulled a red ribbon from his coat pocket.
Draco stared incredulously at the ribbon in Harry’s palm.
“What is -” Draco started, as Harry tied the ribbon around his wrist.
“Fidelis,” Harry whispered, blush coloring his cheeks, his deeply buried secrets twining themselves within the red ribbon.
“You’re never alone, Draco.”
Draco thrust himself forward and kissed Harry as though he was born for it - the moment infinite.
-
Harry’s voice led Draco to the remnants of his pre-war life, the notes of Lilly’s lullabies vibrating lightly against his skin as he walked.
The moment he stepped through the doors of the manor, Draco knew.
He didn’t deserve Harry. He never would.
A numbing cold seized Draco’s muscles as he attempted to move about the house - walls echoing the cries of the dead.
-
Draco’s soft cries for Narcissa, caught between realities, was too much for Harry to bear. He shook Draco awake, lips pressing against his bare shoulder.
“Harry?” Draco mumbled, voice soft and thick with sleep. “Where is my mother?”
A sigh escaped Harry’s lips as he met Draco’s eyes. Pieces of his heart shattered, clanking against his rib cage, the painful sound buzzing his body’s cavity before falling into the abyss.
“Draco,” Harry paused. “She’s dead.”
Draco shook his head vigorously, squeezing his eyes shut, disbelief coloring his features.
“No. Harry. No, no, no. I wrote to her. It took three days to receive a reply -- a terse one, but a reply no less. Don’t you remember?”
Harry bit his lip and lifted his palm to stroke Draco’s cheek, the rhythm of his touch implanting protective promises underneath Draco’s skin.
“I don’t, love.”
Draco looked down at his wrist. The dark mark was there, but --
“The red ribbon. It’s gone. Harry,” Draco panicked, untangling himself from Harry and flinging the bed covers off. “Harry, the ribbon. In the courtyard. Did you take it off of me?” Draco’s eyes were wild, unfocused.
Harry shook his head as tears began to prickle in his eyes, obscuring his vision.
“There’s no red ribbon, Draco.”
Draco recoiled as Harry tried to touch him. There was nothing worse than this. Harry hated Voldemort for doing this to them -- tearing pieces of flesh from their beating, youthful hearts, the empty caverns filling with figments of their imagination.
“You’re never alone, you know that, right?” Harry whispered, reaching for Draco’s hand, threading their fingers together.
This was real. They were real.
“Harry.”
Slowly, Draco came back to him.
-
The remnants of the war-stained their first Christmas, shadows of dark forces pulling them apart, uprooting them from the earth -- viciously, aimlessly -- thrusting them into the polluted atmosphere of their inescapable memories.
There were times when Harry and Draco lay tangled together in their bed, that Harry woke with a start. A strip of his skin illuminated by the moon -- Dumbledore’s voice filling his hollow bones with a whispered lumos, his figure perched on the bench of King’s Cross, the warmth of his smile patching up the tears Voldemort created.
Inspired, Harry planted kisses on patches of Draco’s skin -- the seeds silently screaming for sustenance -- longing for reminders of what life used to be, of what theirs could become.