hearts_n_roses
Of all the stories I wrote this December, this one is my favourite. I was going to save it and post it later, but I'm feeling a little down tonight and needed a lift.
This one is for hearts_n_roses, who asked for 'thunderstorms' (which ended up more metaphorical than literal).
That morning, instead of a warm, sleepy Harry next to him, Draco found a thin leather-bound notebook. Draco opened the book, which he recognized as Ministry issue and warded to the hilt. There were two words scrawled on the top line in Harry's handwriting:
"I'm sorry."
Draco scowled and grabbed a quill from his nightstand.
"What the hell, Harry? What's all this?"
His words shimmered. But instead of glowing to indicate that the message had been successfully transferred to Harry's book, the words were crossed out with thin red ink.
Then, a new message appeared:
ERROR. MESSAGE NOT SENT. DUE TO RECENT MINISTRY BUDGET CUTS, MESSAGES MUST BE TWO WORDS OR LESS. PLEASE TRY AGAIN.
"FUCK YOU," Draco wrote, and threw the book across the room.
*
"Will you put that bloody thing away? People are looking."
"What people?" Draco said, keeping his eyes locked on the page. Any moment now, and Harry would respond.
"Well, me. Honestly!" Pansy snatched the book out of Draco's hands, and Draco was on his feet in an instant.
"Pansy. Give that to me right now."
"Fine. But you listen to me. This is what your life is turning into. Waiting by a stupid book for some pitiful scrap of attention from the great Harry Potter. Waking up next to a cold, empty space with a meaningless platitude scrawled into a book that's supposed to be a stand-in for an actual person. How many times has he left you now for a pointless Auror mission? I'm not saying he doesn't care about you. Even I must admit that he does, in his own misguided and socially eyebrow-raising ways. But he's Potter, and that means he has a hundred thousand things to care about. And I'm really very sorry to say that you're not at the top of that list."
"I don't want to be."
"Don't you lie to me, Draco Malfoy; I know that your nappies had puppies on them when you were eight months old."
Draco cringed and fell silent.
"How could you not want to be at the top of his list? But you're not; this stupid book proves that. So the question now is what you're going to do about it. If I were you, I'd throw that damned book into the fire and be done with him once and for all. How dare he disregard your feelings this way? In fact, I'm going to give him a piece of my mind!"
"NO!"
Draco grabbed for the book, but Pansy was more agile and took off running up the stairs, slamming and locking the door behind her.
"Pansy!"
This was beyond simple mortification; it was sheer humiliation. He drew his wand and melted the hinges with a spell. He threw aside the door and snatched the quill and the book from Pansy's hands.
"Hey!"
"Get out!"
Pansy opened her mouth to retort, but closed it instead.
"Fine. Just don't act surprised when he gets through breaking your heart."
Pansy stomped off in a dignified rage, and Draco opened the book to inspect the damage.
"You're stupid, and if you keep treating Draco like something you found on the bottom of your trainers, I'm going to strip the skin from your skull with one look the next time I see you!" was written in a furious hand, but crossed out with a thin red line. The error message followed, and Draco sighed. No damage done.
It was then that he caught sight of himself in the mirror and knew Pansy was at least partially right: he was taking a lot of crap from Potter. Since when was it all right to just leave at some ungodly hour after a night like the one they'd had, with mouths and knees and stomachs fitting together like tumblers inside a lock? And since when did Draco start accepting that kind of behavior?
At the very least, Potter should have had enough common decency to make too much noise while leaving so Draco could have woken up, made a token protest and be momentarily placated by extravagant promises he would definitely make Harry keep. But all he had been deemed worthy of having was an empty bed and a stupid book.
He stood up and went back downstairs. He did deserve better. The fireplace crackled invitingly, and Draco looked at the book in his hands. What he really wanted, however, was better from Harry; no other would do.
So he opened the book one last time to write--(goodbye, Potter: those were two words)--and was shocked when Harry's writing appeared suddenly underneath Pansy's diatribe.
"Draco?"
Draco stared at his name. He was proud of the way he didn't rush to respond. Instead, he took a moment to smooth the feathers of the quill and to ensure the ink had no clots in it. In fact, he thought about leaving and going for a brisk walk. Let Harry feel how he'd been feeling. In the end, however, he picked up the quill and wrote, "Yes?"
"You're there."
"For now."
There was a pause on Harry's end. Then came slow, measured lettering.
"You're angry."
"Yes. Still."
"I'm sorry."
"And yet."
"Work," Harry wrote, and Draco's vision went red.
"FUCK WORK."
"What?"
"Fuck. Work."
"I can't."
"You won't."
Another pause. Fighting two words at a time was bloody exhausting. Draco closed his eyes and wrote, "Miss you."
"Same."
"Come home."
"I can't."
"Hate you."
"Liar."
"Truth."
Harry's writing suddenly changed. "Fuck. Emergency."
Draco's heart leapt into his throat.
"HARRY."
"Death Eaters."
Oh god.
"Be careful."
"Love you," was Harry's last message for two whole days.
*
"Draco."
Draco nearly missed the message. He'd spent all of two days first writing, then Floo calling, then threatening in person the Ministry of Magic for information on Harry's well-being and whereabouts, and getting nowhere.
That long without sleep had Draco nursing yet another cup of coffee. The last thing he expected was for Harry to contact him, and the realization of that fact sent him flailing out of his stupor and scalding hot liquid all over the table and floor.
"Harry."
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
"No."
"Harry, god..."
"Physically, yes."
"Otherwise?"
"I..."
"Harry."
For a while, there were only drips of ink registering on the parchment from Harry's side.
Then:
"Draco?"
"Yes?"
Still more drops. Draco's heart ached.
"I quit."
"What? Why?"
"You know."
"Tell me."
"I can't."
"Why?"
"No words."
"Try. Please?"
There was a pause. Then:
"My work;"
"Yes?"
"Our life."
"?"
"No contest."
"You sure?"
Draco didn't want this to be a decision Harry would regret, and then resent.
"Yes," Harry wrote. "Yes."
*
In the morning, the book showed a new message:
"Wake up."
Draco groaned. Harry had signed off with assurances that he would be all right and be in touch soon. Draco rubbed his eyes (god, he'd fallen asleep at the table) and groped for a quill.
"Why?"
Then, the two words appeared that he didn't know he'd been waiting for until they were right there, black and white, in the handwriting of the one he wanted and who wanted him back:
"I'm home."
The end.
♥, Z.
This one is for hearts_n_roses, who asked for 'thunderstorms' (which ended up more metaphorical than literal).
That morning, instead of a warm, sleepy Harry next to him, Draco found a thin leather-bound notebook. Draco opened the book, which he recognized as Ministry issue and warded to the hilt. There were two words scrawled on the top line in Harry's handwriting:
"I'm sorry."
Draco scowled and grabbed a quill from his nightstand.
"What the hell, Harry? What's all this?"
His words shimmered. But instead of glowing to indicate that the message had been successfully transferred to Harry's book, the words were crossed out with thin red ink.
Then, a new message appeared:
ERROR. MESSAGE NOT SENT. DUE TO RECENT MINISTRY BUDGET CUTS, MESSAGES MUST BE TWO WORDS OR LESS. PLEASE TRY AGAIN.
"FUCK YOU," Draco wrote, and threw the book across the room.
*
"Will you put that bloody thing away? People are looking."
"What people?" Draco said, keeping his eyes locked on the page. Any moment now, and Harry would respond.
"Well, me. Honestly!" Pansy snatched the book out of Draco's hands, and Draco was on his feet in an instant.
"Pansy. Give that to me right now."
"Fine. But you listen to me. This is what your life is turning into. Waiting by a stupid book for some pitiful scrap of attention from the great Harry Potter. Waking up next to a cold, empty space with a meaningless platitude scrawled into a book that's supposed to be a stand-in for an actual person. How many times has he left you now for a pointless Auror mission? I'm not saying he doesn't care about you. Even I must admit that he does, in his own misguided and socially eyebrow-raising ways. But he's Potter, and that means he has a hundred thousand things to care about. And I'm really very sorry to say that you're not at the top of that list."
"I don't want to be."
"Don't you lie to me, Draco Malfoy; I know that your nappies had puppies on them when you were eight months old."
Draco cringed and fell silent.
"How could you not want to be at the top of his list? But you're not; this stupid book proves that. So the question now is what you're going to do about it. If I were you, I'd throw that damned book into the fire and be done with him once and for all. How dare he disregard your feelings this way? In fact, I'm going to give him a piece of my mind!"
"NO!"
Draco grabbed for the book, but Pansy was more agile and took off running up the stairs, slamming and locking the door behind her.
"Pansy!"
This was beyond simple mortification; it was sheer humiliation. He drew his wand and melted the hinges with a spell. He threw aside the door and snatched the quill and the book from Pansy's hands.
"Hey!"
"Get out!"
Pansy opened her mouth to retort, but closed it instead.
"Fine. Just don't act surprised when he gets through breaking your heart."
Pansy stomped off in a dignified rage, and Draco opened the book to inspect the damage.
"You're stupid, and if you keep treating Draco like something you found on the bottom of your trainers, I'm going to strip the skin from your skull with one look the next time I see you!" was written in a furious hand, but crossed out with a thin red line. The error message followed, and Draco sighed. No damage done.
It was then that he caught sight of himself in the mirror and knew Pansy was at least partially right: he was taking a lot of crap from Potter. Since when was it all right to just leave at some ungodly hour after a night like the one they'd had, with mouths and knees and stomachs fitting together like tumblers inside a lock? And since when did Draco start accepting that kind of behavior?
At the very least, Potter should have had enough common decency to make too much noise while leaving so Draco could have woken up, made a token protest and be momentarily placated by extravagant promises he would definitely make Harry keep. But all he had been deemed worthy of having was an empty bed and a stupid book.
He stood up and went back downstairs. He did deserve better. The fireplace crackled invitingly, and Draco looked at the book in his hands. What he really wanted, however, was better from Harry; no other would do.
So he opened the book one last time to write--(goodbye, Potter: those were two words)--and was shocked when Harry's writing appeared suddenly underneath Pansy's diatribe.
"Draco?"
Draco stared at his name. He was proud of the way he didn't rush to respond. Instead, he took a moment to smooth the feathers of the quill and to ensure the ink had no clots in it. In fact, he thought about leaving and going for a brisk walk. Let Harry feel how he'd been feeling. In the end, however, he picked up the quill and wrote, "Yes?"
"You're there."
"For now."
There was a pause on Harry's end. Then came slow, measured lettering.
"You're angry."
"Yes. Still."
"I'm sorry."
"And yet."
"Work," Harry wrote, and Draco's vision went red.
"FUCK WORK."
"What?"
"Fuck. Work."
"I can't."
"You won't."
Another pause. Fighting two words at a time was bloody exhausting. Draco closed his eyes and wrote, "Miss you."
"Same."
"Come home."
"I can't."
"Hate you."
"Liar."
"Truth."
Harry's writing suddenly changed. "Fuck. Emergency."
Draco's heart leapt into his throat.
"HARRY."
"Death Eaters."
Oh god.
"Be careful."
"Love you," was Harry's last message for two whole days.
*
"Draco."
Draco nearly missed the message. He'd spent all of two days first writing, then Floo calling, then threatening in person the Ministry of Magic for information on Harry's well-being and whereabouts, and getting nowhere.
That long without sleep had Draco nursing yet another cup of coffee. The last thing he expected was for Harry to contact him, and the realization of that fact sent him flailing out of his stupor and scalding hot liquid all over the table and floor.
"Harry."
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
"No."
"Harry, god..."
"Physically, yes."
"Otherwise?"
"I..."
"Harry."
For a while, there were only drips of ink registering on the parchment from Harry's side.
Then:
"Draco?"
"Yes?"
Still more drops. Draco's heart ached.
"I quit."
"What? Why?"
"You know."
"Tell me."
"I can't."
"Why?"
"No words."
"Try. Please?"
There was a pause. Then:
"My work;"
"Yes?"
"Our life."
"?"
"No contest."
"You sure?"
Draco didn't want this to be a decision Harry would regret, and then resent.
"Yes," Harry wrote. "Yes."
*
In the morning, the book showed a new message:
"Wake up."
Draco groaned. Harry had signed off with assurances that he would be all right and be in touch soon. Draco rubbed his eyes (god, he'd fallen asleep at the table) and groped for a quill.
"Why?"
Then, the two words appeared that he didn't know he'd been waiting for until they were right there, black and white, in the handwriting of the one he wanted and who wanted him back:
"I'm home."
The end.
♥, Z.