Author:
Emmie
Title: Hang
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing:
Harry/Draco
Rating: PG
Continuity: 5th year,
perhaps?
Disclaimer: Harry and Draco do not belong to me.
Author's note: Oy. I was trying to do a very simplistic style and
say something very specific. I wound up with a very bare style and
what I would call indicating were it onstage. It almost seems
formulaic, as do all my old fics. Oh bloody well, I worked on this
for over two years. I'm hoping that once I get into some of my newer
stuff, it will be a bit better. Though it's more likely that it's
equally bad, I just won't realize it for another few years.
Summary: "The trouble, understand, is he got reasons, he don't."
Harry sees Draco as nothing more than a good source of regular sex. Very good, as a matter of fact, but that is not the point. Far from it, actually. The point is that is all he sees in the blond. This is what he tells himself every night after leaving Draco in their chosen broom cupboard or, occasionally, the Slytherin's dormitory. It is this belief that he clings to when he wakes, panting and achingly hard, from dreams of Draco. And if ever he begins to think otherwise, he need only remind himself that Draco feels exactly the same about him.
Draco feels like he is drowning. He knows that when most of his peers look at him, they see blackness, evil. In his own life, he sees only gray. A mixture of boredom and a slight edge of fear, the feeling that everything is sliding away from him and he is powerless to stop it. He sees Harry as a savior of sorts, something white and shining like nothing in Draco's life has in a very long time, something he does not quite deserve, but will not let go. He keeps this to himself, tells himself he feels nothing but contempt for the other boy. Gradually, though, he is falling for Harry, or allowing himself to. For the first time in his life he is not completely alone.
Harry hides from his friends. At first it was unintentional. He has never hidden his sexuality, not really. He has simply never mentioned it, and they have not asked. The first time he and Draco kissed, he said nothing, sure that it was an isolated incident, never to happen again. And when it does, he extends his rationalization to the next time, and the next. He continues to tell himself it is not worth telling his friends about, not worth the hassle over a relationship that is mere convenience. He refuses to admit that he does not want to see the looks in their eyes, such hatred of the one he is trying so desperately not to love.
Draco does not have friends; he has cronies. He does not fool himself that Crabbe and Goyle, or even Pansy, who spends every spare moment fawning over him, attempting to molest him, and making up new pet names, each one more nauseating than the last, actually care for him. They have good reason for their apparent loyalty -- power; money as well, in Pansy's case. And of course Draco gains things from them in return -- why else would he waste his time? He is a person who has made himself enough enemies that Crabbe and Goyle are invaluable as protectors. As for the lovely Ms. Parkinson, he is well aware that his father will expect him to marry a nice respectable pureblood girl someday and continue the Malfoy line. It is an expectation Draco will live up to, no matter how much he may loathe Pansy. Love, he knows, has little place in a marriage. He tells them nothing of his relationship -- no, he thinks, not a relationship, a...what? An affair, at best, he decides -- with Harry. But then, aside from snide comments about their own superiority and insults about the inferiority of everyone else, it is rare that they really talk much at all.
Harry finds himself wanting to be alone more and more. Well, no, that's not exactly right. It's just that he seems constantly on the verge of snapping at Ron and Hermione, or anyone else unwise enough to try to carry on a conversation with him, for that matter. Well, almost anyone...except for Draco. In fact, he can't remember the last time the two of them argues with any real animosity. Barbed insults have given way to light, familiar teasing as of late. After all, he reasons, fighting would only get in the way of other, much more pleasurable activities. Days with his friends drag as he bites his tongue to keep from shouting at the to shut up, already, every time they start in on the Slytherins -- well, on Draco, anyway -- and counts the minutes until their nightly meetings. Though he does not realize it, he usually speaks more during these late-night moments than he does all day.
Draco is not quite sure what has happened to him. He loves being alone, always has. Even as a child, he was never the type that needed to be surrounded by others to be entertained. He knows how to associate with he right people, certainly, make useful connections and put on a good show in public, but behind closed doors, he's rather shed the hangers-on and lock himself away with his thoughts. Why, then, does he find himself anxiously awaiting his nightly...encounters...with Potter? Even more perplexing and irritating, why, in the odd moments he does get alone throughout the day, does he actually with the Gryffindor boy was there?
He knows the answer, really. After spending years hanging around his buffoonish entourage, who wouldn't be ready for a change of company? At least Potter is quiet -- like Draco, he speaks when he has something worth saying, rather than blathering on endlessly about every little thing that pops into his head. Yes, that's what he looks forward to -- the refreshing silence, not the easy conversations that stretch on during those times between sex when they are bonelessly contorted into whatever odd space they have taken over for the night, practically plastered together, Harry's hands running incessantly through his hair (a trick that only he can get away with, as Pansy had well learned). After all, they have to do something while they both recover and compose themselves either to return to their dormitories or, more likely, for another go, don't they?
Seasons change. People say that spring is supposed to be the season for hope, as though the emotion crops up with the new growth. Harry, however, has always preferred winter. There is something about the first snowfall of the season that he suspects will always remind him of his very first Christmas at Hogwarts. He smiles as he looks out over the sparkling white grounds, remembering that year, the first time he had Christmas presents, and friends to share them with. The first Christmas he had ever enjoyed.
Everything is different in the snow, and Harry can almost feel the pure elation filling him, bringing with it something else -- a change of heart. No, he thinks, not a change -- an acknowledgment of the feelings that have been in his heart since...he's not even sure when. But he does know the only gift he wants for Christmas this year, and he knows, knows in his very veins that it will be his. That he will be his. It's time, he knows, to stop hiding, to stop denying.
The castle is mostly deserted thanks to the winter holidays, making it a bit easier for sly Slytherins and Gryffindor's to sneak into one another's dormitories. The next night in Draco's room, Harry slips a bit of parchment into the bedside drawer. I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine, it reads in runes spelled so that only the intended recipient can read them. The Slytherin boy returns from washing up to ask what he is grinning about.
"Nothing," Harry replies, smiling still wider. The sex that night is amazing, better, in fact, than ever before, and they know a thing or two about great sex by now. It is well after midnight when Harry finally manages to disentangle himself from a half-asleep Draco's arms to return to his own dormitory. Even then he is completely unable to sleep, thinking about the next day, wishing he could see Draco's reaction when he finds the parchment, planning exactly what he's going to say...more than once he has to bite down on his lower lip to keep from laughing out loud with excitement and nervousness. When he finally does drift off, his dreams continue right where his imagination left off.
Draco stares out the dormitory window at the monotonous blanket of white that greets him. There is something unbelievably bleak about winter. The cold that numbs, the snow that turns to slush and runs everywhere. Normally he despises the season, but this morning he almost welcomes it. The weather matches his mood so perfectly: cold, blank, quietly melancholy.
He had known, somehow, that something was wrong. And indeed, only minutes earlier he'd pulled open the drawer of his bedside table to find himself faced with a scrap of parchment, which bore a message that...simply could not be true. Even if he wanted it to be, which of course he doesn't. He is a Malfoy, damn it. Malfoys belong to no one. They possess of others, certainly -- but not others of the same gender, and definitely not Harry fucking Potter. Cursing to himself, he quickly dresses, stuffing the obviously-spelled note into a pocket. At least Potter had had the sense to magically secure it...if anyone else had read that...Draco shudders. "Beloved?" he thinks, stalking quickly, nervously through the halls, not knowing where he's going, only that he desperately hopes Potter won't be there. What does that prat think he's doing, trying to ruin perfectly good sex by bringing emotions into it? More importantly, what is he going to do now? He can't avoid Potter indefinitely, though he intends to try his very best. Pretending he never got the note is not an option; it's sure to come up within moments in any conversation. There's no way the...affair he reminds himself again, no way the affair can go on the same after this...and there's definitely no way it can be anything more. There's only one thing for it, then, he decides -- it has to end.
Draco is genuinely puzzled as to why his stomach hurts, almost as though someone has knocked the air out of him, as he comes to his realization.
Now there's something you don't see every day, Harry thinks, spying the back of a familiar silver-blond head. Draco Malfoy, studying? Never!
He had been searching the castle for his lover...soon to be boyfriend, he amends, grinning almost maniacally, all morning. The library was the last place he had thought to look. The Slytherin is slumped over one of the study tables, hair a bit tousled, cloak thrown carelessly over a nearby chair. He turns slightly just as Harry is about to sneak up and embrace him from behind and, to the Gryffindor's great surprise, stands, slings the cloak over his shoulders and moves toward the library door as fast as possible without actually breaking into an undignified run.
Harry catches up with Draco a few meters outside the castle, having pursued him after a moment of frozen shock as the realization set in -- it was perfectly obvious that the other boy had seen and purposefully avoided him. But why?
"Draco!" he exclaims, finally catching the blond's arm and catching up so that they can talk face to face. This, however, is a mistake, he knows as soon as he sees Draco's eyes. His heart sinks as he sees a coldness that hasn't been there in months.
"What the bloody hell do you want, Potter?" Draco spits, and Harry nearly flinches. He had never realized how accustomed he's become to the other side of Draco, the one that had been slowly exposed to him as of late.
"Did you...get my note?" he asks cautiously, rehearsed words gone. He fears that he already knows the answer.
"Yes," Draco replies, seeming to soften slightly, or perhaps that is his imagination. The Slytherin pulls a crumpled piece of parchment out of his pocket and presses it into Harry's hand, hard. "I got your little note, Potter. Are you out of your mind?" And then, hissing under his breath, "This is over. No more notes." His voice drops even lower. "No more sex. It's been fun, but it ends now. Understand?"
Harry nods, slowly, mutely. Draco flashes him a quick, tight smile that holds nothing that a smile should -- more a baring of teeth, really. He turns and walks away in a whirl of cloak, leaving Harry standing in the snow clutching his battered parchment, which he numbly puts in his pocket before turning and walking the other direction. And if he thinks he hears an impossibly soft "I'm sorry" on the chill wind? Well, that's probably his imagination as well.
Life, it seems, has a remarkable ability to continue on ceaselessly, regardless of what happens to those caught in its clutches. The months move on, the snow melts, and spring comes, bringing with it not hope, but only heat, and exams, and the long train ride home. Draco's reality is strange, sharp yet blurry, solid yet constantly changing. He is sure it would be fascinating, had he the energy to care.
Harry boards the Hogwarts Express with Ron and Hermione, watching from the corner of his eye as Draco laughs with his Slytherin cohorts some distance behind them. He still cannot quite believe that they are not boarding the train together. He can see it so clearly, the two of them wading through the crowd of students, his arm around Draco's waist, both laughing, not coldly, cruelly as the Slytherins do, but genuinely, like two people in...love. This is the sort of vision his brain has been plaguing him with ever since the winter holidays. He thinks about Draco constantly, even now that the same thoughts chase around and around his head, almost boring him. He would like to think that summer, that not having to see his former lover on a daily basis will bring a respite from the eternal cycling of memories and dreams never realized, but he knows better. He is faced with a long summer of not only missing his friends and Hogwarts itself, but of driving himself slowly insane with thoughts of the one person he wants, maybe needs, most in the world...the one person he cannot have.
The trio finds a compartment and settles in, Harry joining in the conversation. Hermione and Ron are relieve that he has started talking again; he was beginning to worry them. As long as he contributes the odd remark every so often, they are satisfied and he can go back to being tormented by thoughts that they know nothing about. As the train pulls out of the station, Harry's mind drifts, and he pulls an exceptionally worn bit of parchment from his pocket, turning it over and over in his hands. the parchment is covered in runes; on one side is a message he knows well -- after all, he wrote it. On the reverse side is a single word. Although the spell is the same, the hand is obviously different -- the symbols are smaller, neater, more precise. The runes spell out a simple message.
Always.