Four Seasons of Light
A/N - This is my first ever fic. Or even piece of writing since... well, since forever. The story just came rushing out of me one night. I enjoyed writing it, I hope you enjoy reading it. Huge thanks to the wonderful evilgiraffe82 for doing an amaxing job as beta, as well as general hand-holding.
Warnings: Hints at character death. Nothing that isn't fitting though (you'll see).
Disclaimer: The world of HP belongs to JKR - I've just enjoyed messing around at the edges.
Autumn
Bright sunlight cast defined shadows on the wall, the last glory-rays of the afternoon sun. The occasional hum of traffic mingled with the sounds of the room; a clock ticking, the scratch of quill on parchment. Harry looked up from his book and took a moment to enjoy the combination of Muggle and wizarding sounds. Although it was a cold November day, the blue sky and clear light made it look almost like summer outside. Only the nearly bare trees told the truth of the season. Sitting back, and resting British Quidditch Seekers 2010-2035: 25 years of Flying Greatness on his knee, Harry let his mind wander as he surveyed the view, and then the room, with a lassitude borne of warmth, wine and a leisurely Sunday brunch with loved ones. The study in Grimmauld Place was sun-warmed, and there was a distinctly drowsy feel in the air. Light glanced off the spines of the books lining the shelves, hiding their titles from view. As Harry leant back on the worn chesterfield, he lost himself to his thoughts.
Teddy and Victoire had left half an hour ago, full of tales of their travels and still aglow with excitement over their new business venture, a restaurant on Diagon Alley. They made a good team, both in marriage and professionally. Harry was fiercely proud of his godson. It was hard to believe that the Teddy who had once bounced on his knee in Andromeda's kitchen had a daughter of his own at Hogwarts and was now going grey himself (only a few hairs at the temple, but Victoire had teased him mercilessly nonetheless about it this morning). Thoughts of Teddy led to those of Remus and Tonks. Harry spent a few minutes remembering long-departed friends with the wistful warmth of an old loss.
Life had moved on so far since those dark days. At eighteen Harry could never have envisaged the life he had now, filled with calm where before there had just been endless movement and never a chance to settle. Even at twenty-eight it would have challenged him to imagine it: at that time, struggling with the truth of his sexuality, dealing with the break-down of his marriage, life seemed a cruel joke in which he'd sacrificed everything for peace only to find there was no true peace for him. His fear at losing the only family he had, not just his and Ginny's but that of all the Weasleys, had kept him paralysed for years, ignoring the voice in his head which told him he was unhappy, that his life was wrong.
It had taken a forceful Hermione, armed with her insight and a considerable amount of firewhisky to make Harry admit that there was more to his concern for his Auror partner's health than was normal, one dark evening sat in a small pub near St Mungo's. Harry had been wild that night, when he was left in a harshly-lit, empty hospital corridor, shut out of a room, thick with the stench of fear - a room containing two Malfoys: a pale and thin-lipped Narcissa and an unconscious and bloody Draco. The very walls and doors taunting him in his defeat. He had sat slumped and lost, terrified that his glimpse of blood would be the last he saw of Draco. Terrified that he had no place in his life anyway.
A shiver worked through Harry at the memory of that night. Time had reduced it to a series of frozen images and the lingering aftertaste of something like bitterness. The red light of a curse, the slick dark pool of blood, the hollow echo of coldly antiseptic walls. The overwhelming confusion and anger and yet somehow the feeling that a huge truth was at the centre of everything; something life-changing and frightening.
Sometimes, he reflected, your life can change between one moment and the next. Holding a newborn James in his arms, dark eyes bright as they opened, had been such a moment. Time held its breath as he greeted a living Potter relation for the first time he could remember. Nothing had really prepared him for the joy of meeting this new person for the first time.
Other times, though, nothing necessarily had to happen to change your life: sometimes just understanding a truth could be enough. His great epiphany had come in a room smelling of spilt stale beer and in the din of over-loud voices. He loved Draco Malfoy. Not like he loved Ginny - no, that was the problem, he loved Malfoy with a passion the intensity of which terrified him. The essential truth of this blasted away every anchoring sentiment which held him to his wife. In the face of it, he couldn't justify his lies to himself or her any more.
At the time, he had wept himself raw at the realisation. Hermione had taken him to the one place he could have some space, Grimmauld Place. Back then it had still been a dark and dusty mausoleum to the Black family, unloved and untouched.
Now, Harry couldn't feel it the same way. All the fear, insecurities, hurt, had eventually been burnt away by the brightness of Draco.
Considering the way his life had turned out, Harry felt satisfaction deep in his body, a satisfaction that sharpened into something else as he looked up and his eyes settled on Draco at his desk. Even now, years on, the sight of the lean back made Harry's breath tighten in his chest. As if aware somehow of the gaze focused on him, Draco lifted his head and turned to face Harry. For a moment he appeared lit up from within, then a soft version of his customary smirk found its way to his face.
"Staring again?" he asked, one eyebrow aloft.
Harry smiled. "Always. And you bloody love it too. Any attention."
Draco replied with a firm "Always" of his own, then quickly putting down his quill and sealing his letter, added "I've finished this anyway". Getting up, he walked over to Harry and sat down next to him. Harry shifted his body closer and faced Draco, raising a hand to his face. Tenderly he slid Draco's glasses off and ran a finger along the cluster of lines at his eyes, the deep scores by his mouth.
"All those years of smiles and laughter," he whispered.
"And love. And fucking', Draco added, with a glint in his eye.
Reaching for each other Harry and Draco shared a gentle kiss, full of memories and promises. Then Harry took off his own glasses and put both pairs on the side table along with his book. Draco rested his head on Harry's shoulder, and together they sat and dozed as the last few leaves fluttered in the occasional breeze, the traffic went by, and the sun shone.
Winter
Harry wiped away the snow, then sat down in his favourite spot: the bench in the shared garden square, hidden away from the road behind flaking gates. He reached out and ran his gnarled hand tenderly over the wood's softened edge, and the name inscribed along the back. His throat tight, he let out a soft sigh. "I miss you," he murmured, "every day".
Harry sat back, awkwardly, knees creaking, breathing heavily after the short walk from his house, across the road and through the gate, puffs of white escaping in front of him. He looked up at the skyline, empty houses and trees black against a white sky. There was no colour now, just the blank bright snow and the elegant scrawl of branches. After a long moment he looked back down at the name. "Thank you" he said, "Thank you for all the light, for helping me to see it."
Then Harry closed his eyes as he drew the cold air in deeply. He opened them again just as snow began swirling down, fat flakes sparkling in the low winter sun. Harry smiled, closed his eyes one more time, and all the world was still.
Spring
Harry woke up, his head heavy, his stomach feeling both queasily over-full and empty all at once. Wincing, he looked up at the musty bed hangings, remembered Hermione's serious face and her parting words to him, and pulled the blanket up over his head. It smelt faintly of mildew. Harry, you can't hide from your own life. You need to face this. Face Ginny. Face Malfoy. Please, Harry. You've finally stopped lying to yourself. It might not seem like it now, but you've got a chance to live now. But you've got to start talking to us, you've got to see your family. We care about you. We might get angry but we do care. He'd turned away from her, had another drink, heard her let herself out.
Even knowing that Malfoy was going to be ok hadn't been enough to move him from the Black house at Number 12. Instead, he'd remained cloistered away within its dank walls, refusing to go home to Ginny and the children. The guilt was gnawing away at him, ever-present and destructive. Only firewhisky kept it at bay, and then not really. At some level, he knew he smelled bad, needed to shave, needed to get out. Get out of this place, this rut, this miserable existence. He didn't know how though and could just feel himself falling further and further down. Every thought led to pain. His betrayal, his desertion: the lies that were the great Harry Potter. Groaning, Harry held his hands to his head as if to squeeze out his thoughts, but to no avail.
Harry's head began pounding now, a rhythmic bang, bang, which did nothing to help. Some days he refused to take hangover potion, punishing himself with the hideous aftermath of his drinking. Other days he gave in and took it. Those were the days he hated himself the most, for being weak, for giving in to the need for comfort. Today he reached over and swallowed the potion. Shakily, he found his head clearing, his stomach settling and awareness of the room growing.
The banging noise, however, did not stop. Harry became aware of a voice shouting his name. In an instant the clammy sick feeling had returned as he realised that Malfoy was outside. And not outside the front door, but standing by his bedroom door. A moment later the door swung in with one final crash, carrying Malfoy with it; blond hair swinging free with the momentum of the movement. Harry sat up with a start.
It was unclear as to who looked at whom with more horror. Malfoy stood frozen between the threshold of the room and the bed. His horror quickly turned to anger as he took in Harry's state.
"That's it," he started. "That's enough." Malfoy's voice began to rise as he continued. "How dare you shut yourself away like this. You can't vanish! Not only are you leaving me with a huge backlog at work, I've had a whole parade of desperate Weasels firecalling me at all hours. I've had to endure being blamed—", he broke off and glared at Harry before continuing, his voice harsh, "—somehow, for your disappearance." Malfoy's face was contorted with the effort of his tirade. His disillusioned, selfish despair was clear to see. "Why should your little breakdown take away what little... trust... the illusion of trust... I've spent years building?"
Eyes flashing, Malfoy raised his hand, as if to run it through his hair, but then brought it back down to his side, fighting a battle to maintain some self control. "Do you have any idea what you're doing?" He paused, cheeks ablaze with anger. "You have no reason to be a fuck-up. No reason at all! You've had everything handed to you in life: The Boy Who Lived, married, children, your dream career. You have power and money. You even have a life full of people who do actually care about the man and not just the hero. And yet suddenly you walk away from it all. People dream of having your life, of being you. Some of us," he paused, voice choking with emotion, "haven't had those chances."
Harry looked down. Why else be so miserable if not because he did already know this? He had nothing to say.
"I..." he started, but nothing else came.
Malfoy glared at him, hard. It was a familiar look, one that Harry hadn't seen in years. Inside it made him shiver with... something. Which was more than he had felt (apart from pity and self-hate) for days. The way he looked back at Malfoy though, was not the same as when they had been boys. It was expressionless, impassive. Broken.
Malfoy took a breath and opened his mouth to speak again, but instead unexpectedly stopped, took a step backwards and slumped down to the floor.
"I can't see you like this. I can't bear you like this." he said in a low, strained voice. His body was still just as full of tension, but now it was held inwards, clamped in with the fists clenched at his sides.
Harry looked up. "I... I don't know what to do," he said in a voice so low it could barely be heard. "I'm lost. All I can see is darkness."
Malfoy inhaled deeply and carefully held his hands together, twisting his fingers up as he started to talk. "I don't care. I do care... I care how you are, I don't care why. But I do know that it has to stop now, Potter. I'm selfish, work is a nightmare without you, and... you... you've been... balancing out my life since I was eleven years old, and I might not hate you any more but I still need you to stand against me," he blurted out, all in a rush. At this he gave Harry a particularly fierce look. "I need you to be there."
Harry's heart was beating as loudly as Malfoy had been banging on the door earlier. Malfoy needed him. A sliver of hope made its way into Harry's soul. And then doubt. Would need be enough for him? Holding still he shut his eyes and tried to calm himself by breathing slowly.
Just as suddenly as he'd sat down, Malfoy stood up and brushed himself down. He strode to the windows and pulled back the curtains. Grey light filled the room, enough of a contrast to the murky darkness to make Harry's eyes water and blink. Malfoy turned to Harry.
"Get up." he ordered. "Get up and get dressed. Actually, have a shower, then get dressed. I'll be waiting downstairs."
"Er.. Ok." said Harry.
Harry reached for his glasses and pulled himself out of bed. The sliver of hope was enough to get him moving. Turning towards the bathroom, he hesitated and flushed deeply as he realised that Malfoy was seeing him semi-dressed. Before Malfoy had appeared in his room Harry hadn't cared about how dishevelled he looked, yet suddenly he was conscious of how pathetic, not to mention near-naked, he was. Dimly he was aware of Malfoy's eyes on him, a determined look of... something on his face. Harry shuddered at the thought that it might be pity. He hoped it was anger. Whatever it was, there was colour in Malfoy's cheeks and a dangerous light in his eyes.
Struggling to maintain a vague pretence of dignity, Harry staggered off to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him with relief. After quickly showering and shaving, he dried himself with a rough old towel, rubbing his body to a tingling redness as he tried to scrub away some of his dragging misery. Back in his now-empty room, he spelled his clothes clean, not as good as properly clean clothes, but it would have to do. Harry dressed in the gentle light coming in through the grimy windows. Stomach fluttering, he went downstairs to see if Malfoy was still there.
In the kitchen, a fresh pot of coffee sat on the side, and the back door stood open. Harry poured himself a cup (black as there was no milk or sugar) and stepped outside. It was cold, and Harry wrapped his fingers around the mug, grateful for the hot coffee. He brought the cup to his lips and it stung his mouth as he swallowed it down, strong and bitter; but it scoured away some of his heavy mood. The sky felt low: a blanket of cloud, the light diffused, no shadows cast. Malfoy stood at the base of the one tree in the garden, his own cup of coffee in his hands. He looked up as Harry approached. Harry's breath hitched as he saw Malfoy's face light up into a gentle smile.
"Much better. You look almost like Potter again."
"Strangely I can imagine feeling a little like him again too. Although..." Harry trailed off, hope turning nervous, uncertain.
"You're not the same, are you?" Malfoy whispered.
A long pause followed as Harry battled to find the courage to respond. His insides knotted and his mouth was dry. "No, something's changed," he answered, finally.
Both men fell silent at this. Harry looked down at the scruffy ground, Malfoy took a sip of his coffee.
"You know," said Malfoy, breaking the moment as he gestured upwards, "this is actually a rather beautiful tree. It's a cherry tree, if you look you can see the buds on it. Soon it will be full of blossom and leaves. This little garden will be full of life."
Harry looked up. The tree had dark brown bark in shiny, horizontal strips. He reached out and touched the tree trunk, enjoying the contrast in texture between the uneven stripes. He could see the buds on the branches. He closed his eyes. When he opened them, Malfoy was looking directly at him.
"I don't know why you've neglected this place so badly," Malfoy looked up at the house, his voice sounding harsh, yet sad. Angry, almost. "It could be beautiful too, you know. You've done nothing to it: neither lived here nor sold up. It's just sat here empty and unloved, while you went off and played at happy families."
"Hey!" Harry protested, bristling at Malfoy's bitter tone. "My family life is... was... happy." Even though it was a lie. Anger mingled with confusion, sorrow. He sighed.
"Sorry," muttered Malfoy, though he still held Harry's gaze with eyes that were sharp and keen. When he started talking again, his voice was softer, wistful.
"When I saw that curse flying towards me, I suddenly realised something. I didn't want that to be my last moment. I wanted a chance to... to talk to you. To know you. I think it's all I've ever wanted. It's been fun, the arguing..." with this he gave Harry a rueful smile, which Harry returned, with memories of insults and shouting, even the odd hex and shove, but humour and familiarity too. No hatred though, they'd left that behind a long time ago. "In fact, it's the first real fun I've had since...". Here he trailed off and looked down at his left arm again. "But it's... "
"Not enough." Harry finished for him. They both fell silent. Harry felt a hum of anticipation, a dizzying spike of adrenaline.
Draco bent down and placed his coffee cup on the ground. He looked at Harry with determination, head held proudly up. He stuck out his hand and looked straight into Harry's eyes.
"Hello," he said, "I'm Draco."
Full of wonder, Harry switched his cup over to his other hand, and held out his right, grasping Draco's.
"Hello," he said, "I'm Harry."
Their hands were hot, coffee-warmed. Trembling. Then they shook hands, slowly, deliberately.
Somehow, standing there under the tree with its stripes and shininess and its buds, in the dull light of a cloudy day, Harry knew that everything was going to be ok. He looked down at the hand he was still grasping, then up into an intense grey light that was nothing to do with the faint sunlight behind the clouds. A slow, tentative smile crept on to his face. Draco released his hand, then smiled himself, reached down for his cup, and took another sip of his coffee.
Summer
The trees in the back gardens of Grimmauld Place - including the one laden with cherries - were home to a seemingly vast array of songbirds. Early in the pale not-yet-hot light of morning, they broke into a cacophonous yet melodic dawn chorus. Their song however, did not wake Harry and Draco as they had not yet been to sleep. Sprawled out across the sheets of their bed, they were lying naked, satiated but not tired, sticky with sweat.
Harry ran his hand across Draco's chest, down his side, brushing past the fuzz of his legs and coming to rest at the top of his thigh. Draco turned over and looked intently into Harry's eyes. He raised his hand to Harry's face, brushing his cheek with his thumb. Moving closer, they kissed. Gently at first, then deeper. Breaking off with a laugh Harry, eye twinkling, smiled his question at Draco: "Not again, surely?". Draco just stared back, paused then whispered "I love you". Harry froze - this was the first time Draco had said the words - then grinned. "I love you too," he whispered. The hand resting near Draco's hip moved, and they showed each other exactly what they meant. Again.
As skin met skin, sighs and moans filled the room, a fire of passion lit them from within and Harry and Draco revisited every corner of each other, body and soul. They shook and trembled with effort and emotion. As always all they needed was the other one pushing, taking in, needing.
Afterwards, bright morning light, filtered through layers of green leaves, filled the room. It moved in dappled shadows, flickering over their bodies. Bodies touching, smiles on their faces, Harry and Draco fell asleep together, in the light.