Title:
Lost
Author/pseudonym:
black fungi
Email
address:
Rating:
R
Pairings:
Harry/Draco
Status:
In-Progress
Date:
07/01/06 (update)
Archive:
Yes
Archive
author:
Archive
email address:
Series/Sequel:
Category:
Angst, Drama, First Times
Author's
website:
Disclaimers:
J.K.R.
owns HP universe. I claim authorship to this story which is
written simply for mindless entertainment... STRICTLY a non-profit
endeavor.
Notes:
Do
note the following for easier reading:
...words...
- Indicates words are stressed (bold)
...words...
- Indicates unspoken thoughts (italics)
...words...
- Indicates mind-speak (underlined)
ff
dot net unfortunately does not accept asterisks, double slashes or
square brackets for the above respective indicants.
Summary:
It
was a beautiful Sunday afternoon. At least he thought it was Sunday.
It was too glorious a day to be any other. Free. It had to be Sunday.
It did not bother him that he was sitting alone in a garden, nude.
Warnings:
Rape/Non-Con,
Slash, Violence
--------------------------------------------------------
ACT I: Beautiful Sunday Afternoon
It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon.
At least he thought it was Sunday. It was too glorious a day to be any other. Free. It had to be Sunday.
It did not bother him that he was sitting alone in a garden, nude.
He wondered a little if he cared for freckles; awfully nasty things, they were. He rather like his pale skin unmarred, but then, he remembered someone teasing him how cute they were on his nose and back, and decided it wasn't worth the long walk up to the house to retrieve his sun hat. He was comfortable where he was, and that was that.
He spied a figure running towards him from the woods. A woman. Some time later, two more figures emerged, running after her. If he pretended he didn't notice them, perhaps they would pass him by without a word?
No, his acting skills, he realized unhappily, must be short of dismal; the woman was crouching near him, red in the face and panting, and reaching for him. The other two young men - it was difficult to know for certain since they were most peculiarly dressed in flowing robes and looked too pretty to be men - were standing behind her.
Her mouth was moving rapidly, but he couldn't hear a word she was saying. He didn't think he had gone deaf in the space of minutes; he could still hear the birds twittering and the sound of rustling leaves in the cool breeze. Rather than being alarmed, he thanked his luck for his selective hearing for he could very well imagine the content of her speech just by the look on her face, and he thought she looked furious enough to kill. Evidently, her two friends thought the same, and they had moved forward in response; each laid a hand on either side of her arms, as if to keep her from doing bodily harm to his person.
Now, one of her friends, a redhead, began to speak. He deliberated whether to inform his latest speaker that he was unable to hear him too and they were wasting his time. He would like them to leave him alone he wanted to say. He didn't know who they were, what they wanted, why they intend to ruin his afternoon, and he wanted to add loudly that he was not particularly fond of being manhandled when the redhead squeezed his arms a little too painfully.
When had he moved closer? It was a terrible nuisance having bits of holes in your memory, but he learnt that it must not worth hurting his head remembering: If it was important, he would remember it in time.
He believed that he was being asked about the strange wet substance covering his hands that had begun to dry red crusts on his fingertips.
He didn't know, and he didn't care.
Her other friend, the dark-haired one who still had a good grip on that demented woman, was looking at him oddly. He had said nothing but fixed him a stare. There was quiet anger in his eyes... and disappointment that made his stomach ache. He could not look at him anymore. He turned to his first subject again.
She was still babbling, that woman. Won't she stop?
There was one word that kept falling on her lips.
His mouth followed the shape of her mouth as she spoke. He rolled the word off his tongue, testing the sound of it, and frowned: "Draco?"
Whilst he couldn't hear their voices, he understood that they had no trouble hearing his; the redhead stopped his useless ranting; the dark-haired man narrowed his eyes in suspicion; and the woman had used this opportunity to pull herself free from this minute shock, crossed over to his side, and gave him a hard, resounding slap on his face. He almost cried.
Then the woman did the most confounding thing: She hugged him and sobbed into his chest. He looked at the two men, alarmed. The redhead was trying to pull her off him, looking apologetic and angry at the same time. The dark-haired one looked utterly disgusted.
His head hurt. His stomach ached funnily again. She was still mouthing the word "Draco".
He shook his head and calmly told her that he was not Draco, and that she and her friends should leave this place because they did not belong here. He also told them that he was very displeased that they had trespassed on his property. He hoped they heard him. He wanted to rest now; he wanted peace, away from the chaos; he knew he deserved it; he knew – though he knew not how - they knew it too.
Suddenly, the woman pushed him away hard and looked to the left. The two men also looked to the left. He looked to the left too and saw two other figures running down the hill. There was another person running at a slower pace; he was cradling a bundle in his arms.
How many were they trampling unannounced on his land?
The two new intruders - two redheads again - were coming closer. They were yelling something to the first redhead who paled at their words. The woman broke into a run to meet the person with his burden. The dark haired one was now holding a strange thin stick in his right hand; he was not happy.
Well, tough. He was not happy either. He thought he had more right to his anger, and he told the grumpy one so.
It was quick, and he found himself pinned on his back with his face at the end of that stupid thin stick. Someone was trying to pull yet another someone off him, and that someone wasn't trying very hard either. He laughed. He wondered if he was going to die laughing; he thought he was going to die, beaten to a pulp; whoever heard of anyone dying because he was being pointed to with a stick?
It made the dark-haired one even grumpier; he punched his nose hard. There was this same wet substance that dripped from his broken nose. He still didn't care, so he laughed. It felt good to laugh. He forgotten how good it felt; the ache in his tummy, head and nose left him; he must laugh more only to keep the pain away.
He heard a slap, and his face didn't hurt. No, the woman had hit the dark-haired one this time. He laughed again. He didn't notice that the woman and the latest interloper - an older man with the most severe face - were already here. He looked angrier than Grumpy; he was cradling someone in one hand who was wrapped protectively and almost entirely in his favorite quilt that only tuffs of his hair could be seen; he was holding another stupid stick in the other.
Oh, he had to laugh!
Wait! His favorite quilt! They pinched his favorite quilt!
Was it really his favorite quilt?
He thought hard. He didn't know, and he didn't care. Yes, he was mistaken; He did not have a favorite quilt.
They didn't pay him anymore attention except for Grumpy and Grumpier. The annoying woman was crying again and mouthing that damned word. He reckoned that they had found the real Draco, and he wished his accidental company good riddance.
Grumpier then disappeared from his sights with Draco. Blasted memory! When did they go? Next, it was the redheads and the increasingly hysterical woman.
Only Grumpy was left.
Grumpy knelt in front on him, his eyes watery. Grumpy was now sad.
The ache in his head and tummy returned. Even his nose and cheek hurt. "Don't cry, Grumpy," he said. "Please don't cry."
Grumpy did not cry, and he was relieved. He was strangely happy. Cold fingers found his, and he remembered this: Warm Sunday afternoon; sitting on the grass; happy.
"It's all right, Grumpy. It will always be all right," he whispered. "You told me once, don't you remember? I remember that."
Grumpy did not say a word. If he did, he didn't know, and he didn't care. Soon, he forgot there was anyone else with him.
It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon. He was sitting on the grass, the sun shining on his face, and he was happy.
TBC?