Originally posted on Tumblr 28/07/2012. Written awhile ago for MelancholicRain's birthday.
My thanks to Shirley, Judy and Emily for their help in beta-reading.
Post-canon Drarry fic. Implied prior relationship. I'm still not sure if these characters count as in character or not, so I suppose you run the risk of OOC.
To live; to dream.
Draco Malfoy is dying.
He is aware of this much, between the fits of madness and raving and screaming, and red hot pain, burning into his arm, pounding into his head and the potions, each more vile than the other, forced down his throat.
In the rare moments of lucidity (the calm before the storm, a stronger fit occurs after each time) he can hear the soft notes of the old piano drifting lazily through the house. Somewhere in his memory - it seems so long ago, and yet, it was what... Seven years since the matter. He recalls a black haired woman - "Aunt Bellatrix", he called her, creating a storm with that piano. He remembers that sharp pain in his arm, an indication of the displeasure of the Dark Lord, and then his Aunt, storming into the house, power flaring around her like a cloak. Doors would bang, windows would slam shut and things would break, overwhelmed by the turbulent emotions, unseen spectators.
She played like a woman possessed, fingers running over the keys. Draco would watch her, flat on his stomach on top of the stairs, peeking through the railing. It is in times like this that he can understand how she might've been considered a beauty, when all there is now are haunted eyes and gaunt, slack flesh. She is a pillar of fire, burning and spitting and roaring; consuming oxygen, feeding and feeding until there was nothing but itself to take into it's own destructive path. The music conjures images within his mind's eye of a storm, crashing and burning, a tense current of electricity running through the currents of magic surrounding the house.
Draco Malfoy had always felt so alive during those moments. Alive and on the edge, death and lust and beauty and madness mixed into one potent aphrodisiac. It wasn't Aunt Bellatrix, but what she could do with the music, what she could do in the madness.
The music that he hears in moments of lucidity is different. There is none of the frenetic energy, the strange madness that was imbued within the very being of Bellatrix Lestrange here. It woos him to a peaceful sleep, dreaming of endless windswept hills, scattered with trees, trees with long sagging hair, weeping willows, trees that wept. It seems fitting in an ironic manner - none will weep for his death, but within his dreams, he is surrounded by a legion of mourners, waving their long shaggy hair to bid him adieu.
As he drifts to sleep, he remembers snippets of a familiar style - he knows this, he knows someone, a person, who played like this, a particular quirk in the pressure placed on the high A, the slightly faster twirl of a chromatic scale. Before he can take grasp of this thought, it drifts away, stolen by the darkness encroaching on his consciousness.
Some days, the hills of his dreams are filled with rain. It's hot on his skin, and rolls slowly down his cheek, down onto his chin, and when he flicks a tongue out to taste the residue, it's salty. Nothing like the rain of reality. Who, he wonders, cries for him?
The music isn't there some days, but it's alright. He is greeted with eyes, staring at him, watching him. Eyes and a nose and a mouth, components of what must be a face. They look sad, and he wants to raise an arm to brush the face of the angel that mourns for him. A study in contrasts, black inky hair, pale skin, deprived of the sun perhaps. The only colour are the eyes which are staring at him, oh so green, they make him miss the hills of his dreams where his mourners sway from side to side, not moving forward, not looking back. His mouth opens to speak, to ask 'Will you take the pain away?' 'Will you free me from the final problem?' but he cannot. The pain is creeping back into him, his head is pounding again, and there are thoughts, treading and treading across his brain, there is fire burning in his arm and he opens his mouth and screams. The scent of lilies wash over him, and he can see with a startling lucidity, one more moment, green eyes, still staring at him, pale lips moving, making words, sounds before the blackness claims him.
He wakes next to the sound of a voice. It's familiar, but there's a hard edge to it, something he's heard only once before - ("You. You foul, loathsome evil little cockroach.") - but not quite, because it's colder, dispassionate. Beneath him is the familiar feel of his own bed, large and covered in soft sheets, nothing but the best for the young lord Malfoy. There is a blurred outline in front of him, standing tall.
"Seven weeks," it says. He can see the outline of a clipboard, and a flash of recognition races through him. He's pleased, but not. "That's how long you've been out."
Hermione Granger glares at him over the rim of her glasses. "If you attempt to pull out the IV drip, I will have to Stun you," she says, her mouth a thin line - disapproval then. Draco wonders what an IV drip is. He receives his answer when his vision focuses, and sees a pale tube connected to his arm, stuck into one of what must be his veins.
His first instinct is to rip it out of his arm, because it's unnatural, a plastic, Muggle tube stuck into his arm, but then he remembers that Granger is standing there, wand pointed at him, unwavering.
"Put that thing away Granger," he says, voice croaky. She starts, and with a smooth flick of her wand, brings a glass of water to him. There is a straw there, and he drinks through it greedily, grudgingly admiring the amount of pure control that is needed to keep the glass steady.
While he drinks, she speaks. "It was his last mark on the world. When he died, he let out a leash of death magic." Draco thinks that Granger seems impressed. He wonders what it is that she's been up to, to change her like this. "The only reason it was delayed for so long was... " Here, she hesitates. "Because of reasons."
Draco blinks. There is something she is not telling him, something that he will find out. But first... "Who?" he asks, voice slightly less croaky.
She stares at him. 'Stupid.' It says, and it occurs to him after a moment.
"Oh."
There is only one person who has made that kind of lasting physical mark on him.
A snort escapes her professional facade. "Oh indeed." She shifts her glasses up from where they have fallen, makes a mark onto her clipboard, neat, clinical.
"We managed to keep you alive by mixing morphine and certain... Illegal potions." Her lip curls with distaste. "You'll find that you'll have a tremor on your left arm - there is nothing we can do about that, except perhaps therapy."
Her eyes flicker up, then down again, and she speaks, undoubtedly to answer his unspoken question. "Morphine. It's a Muggle drug. Distilled from the poppy flower, named after the Greek god Morpheus, god of dreams." Granger. The same as ever. Always giving more information than was needed.
The clipboard snaps shut and she turns to walk out. Draco watches her go, and feels nothing. Last he had heard, she was an assistant to the Department of Mysteries. Perhaps they had sent her in to check on his case. Perhaps she was one of the researchers who had found the cure.
Draco raises an eyebrow when Granger pauses at the door. "You know," she says, her voice light, conversational. "I think you should thank him." She turns slightly to look at him. "Harry. If not for him, you would've died." She seems cross at his lack of immediate reply, if her frown is any indication of anything.
He's long learned to wait Granger out, to let her say her piece - it's far easier than arguing with her. "Our findings have told us that the longer a person has the Mark, the longer they live. Adversely, those who had the Mark for the same amount of time as you did... They died within the first week. And yet, somehow, you lived for seven weeks, and was cured from your ailment."
"My parents-"
She laughs harshly, rudely interrupting him. "Your parents had no power. I thought you would've learned that long ago. No. It was Harry. Because he's the Chosen One, the Boy-Who-Lived, and his word holds more influence than yours or your parents ever will."
Her face softens, and she looks tired. And when she next speaks, he hears a touch of fondness in her voice. "You should go and see him."
The door shuts behind her.
He tells himself after she leaves that he'll go and thank Potter. Because it's polite, and his mother raised him as a gentleman (and it was he who failed to live up to expectations.)
He doesn't want to though. They were over, they were through.
It makes him wonder.
Why.
It's three months later when he next sees Granger, and there's a dark scowl on her face as she drags him off into a hidden corner. He's tempted to make a joke at her expense, but another peek at his face tells him that it's in the best interests of self preservation to stay quiet.
"No Weasley around?" he asks. Self-preservation had never been one of his strong points.
Her frown turns deeper. "You haven't seen Harry," she says, sharp, accusatory. Her voice gives him a near flashback to the days of Hogwarts, where he'd hear McGonagall scolding someone or other with that voice of hers - sharp disapproval, gentle disappointment. A school teacher's voice. Granger hasn't quite got it yet - she's checking her watch anxiously, shuffling a document here and there.
He sneers at her. "I don't see that's why that's any of your business, Granger." A muscle jumps in her jaw, but she's otherwise quiet. Perhaps she was trying to think of a clever retort. Trying, that is. He takes a moment to enjoy her frustration - an irritated Granger is amusing regardless of what risks he takes for his enjoyment - before he crosses his arms, and stares at her.
She sighs. "I have somewhere to be," she says, a grimace on her face.
"Lucky you."
He hears a rude snort before she hurries away. That's the second time. It's two too many.
Granger somehow finds it in her time to bother him everytime he comes to the Ministry. Every. Damn. Time. By the sixth or seventh "accidental" encounter, he's ready to hex her. Except, of course, she anticipates him, and now... Well, now there is a Weasley trailing behind her, all too hex happy, especially in relation to him.
He finally gives in (and shudders to think what would happen if she decided that her future lay in the path of world domination. It seems to fit her, the overly controlling woman she is) and arranges a meeting with Potter's secretary.
They finally meet at a quaint little cafe in Muggle London. He fakes reading the newspaper until he gets bored with the reports on the Muggle stock market. He entertains a brief fantasy which involves punching the irritating Weasley's face. By then, the coffee is cold. His eyes flicker left, right, before he taps the cup with his wand from beneath his sleeve - no one notices that it's warm again.
Time passes.
Draco lights up a cigarette and takes a drag.
That's when he appears.
Potter's hair is, perhaps even messier than usual. Draco resists the urge to run his fingers through that hair, wondering when was the last time Potter had gotten a haircut. And there were his eyes, "Killing Curse green", he recalls Professor Snape (old habits die hard) saying.
"Potter."
Potter nods at him, and seats himself into the chair. "Sorry I'm late. Auror business," he says, terse, on edge. He's still slightly twitching, not all of the adrenaline having faded. A chase, Draco guesses. He watches as Harry checks the time before he glances up, catching Draco's eyes.
"I..." Draco swallows, suddenly nervous. The eyes are so dreadfully green, Killing Curse green, greener than Slytherin's emeralds. They stare at him unblinkingly, a mild curiosity to them. "Thank you." He says at last.
He catches the slight widening of Potter's eyes, but apart from that, there is very little indication of surprise. He's gotten better, he notes. Draco supposes that, if it weren't for the fact that his 'thank you's are so rare, then he wouldn't have gotten a reaction at all.
"For what?" The question is deceptively mild, but Draco knows there is more to it than just the two words, so simple, would imply.
"Granger... Granger said you were the one who pulled the favours."
There is a moment of silence between them - it feels longer than moment, but it feels so long, so dragged out. He hears a sigh from his companion. "There's nothing to be grateful for," Potter says at last. It's tired, it's sad, and it's not something he wants to hear from this person, of all people. He'd long since given up his claim, but that didn't mean Draco couldn't look out for his interests.
He must be tired, he realises. There are dark circles around his eyes - a lack of sleep perhaps? He waves the waiter over, ignoring the irritated look that Potter gives him and orders him food and coffee.
"You don't have to."
The half-hearted protest is easily brushed off.
They sit in silence.
"Ha-"
"Dra-"
"You first."
The resulting, and awkward silence is interrupted by the waiter bringing the food to the table. Potter devours the food, only taking the slightest amount of care to make sure that he wasn't spilling food all over the place.
Draco taps his wand to the coffee cup again, warming it up, although he isn't really interested in it. He brings it to his lips, bumps the edge against his teeth as he takes a sip, eyes focused on Potter, eating.
Potter has finished eating, and Draco thinks he should probably call for more food, or make a quip, or something because Potter is licking his fingers, as if trying to savour every taste of the food that his fingers had touched. Potter's eyes dart up, and for a moment, they freeze, eyes captured by each other.
The moment is broken by silver otter appearing before them. It opens it's mouth, and a familiar voice says, "Harry, come by as quickly as you can. Might be an emergency."
Granger.
Draco shakes his head at Potter, who's looking for his wallet. "My treat," he says, voice flat. Potter opens his mouth to protest, but now, Draco is already walking towards the counter.
He hears a yelled 'thanks!' from behind him, but doesn't turn to look.
When he walks back to the table, Potter is long gone.
His mother has mustered everyone into the living room, from the family, to the servants, the renters and the house elves.
"We," she declares, "are going to spring clean." Her tone bodes no room for argument, and the people before her line up in tired resignation to receive their chores.
His mother is the only of the three - father, mother, son - to accept the suggested counselling from a psychologist - a Muggle Mind Doctor, or so he had been told. Apparently, it had been Granger, who had suggested this (she later informed him that it was in fact Harry's suggestion - she had simply passed it along. He had snorted, and said "Doesn't stop you from being an irritating medler, Granger.").
Draco is sorting through the box of comics (The Incredible Hulk? Spiderman? Muggles were strange) when he hears the smooth voice of his mother, calling his name. She slowly climbs up the ladder to the attic, and wraps him in an embrace, ignoring his flinch. He wonders if this was another thing that her "psychologist" had suggested.
Whatever he may have to say on the subject, it was true that she seemed happier. Her steps are lighter, and she smiles more easily, as if the weights that had dragged her down had... Not gone, but lightened.
"Draco," she says, and he pales, a shiver of dread racing down his spine, because his mother only speaks like that (to his father usually), in a sweet and unassuming voice when she is plotting something, or when she wants something from someone. As he's seen on many occasions, what Narcissa Malfoy wants, what Narcissa Malfoy gets.
She smiles kindly at him, and really, it serves only to put him more on edge.
"Yes mother?" he offers her, cautious.
She brings forward a black shirt, something he hadn't noticed before and he stares at it, uncomprehending.
"Why do you have one of Harry Potter's shirts in your room?"
She continues, as if she hasn't seen the slack jawed look that's appeared on his face.
"I recognise the maker, Madame Aloysius, as it were. Enchanted wear. She's one of the best."
Potter had told him that it'd been a combined birthday gift from his friends. And then he'd done something incredible with his tongue and-
"Draco darling, your cheeks look a tad red." There is a knowing smile on her face, and he is damned if he speaks, damned if he doesn't.
So he snatches the shirt out of her hands and makes a speedy getaway, telling her that he'd "take this over to Potter's place, I'm sure he'll be missing a shirt of value such as this."
His hand has already pressed down on the door bell when he realises that he hasn't planned what he's going to say. Before he can think of anything though, the door is open, and Potter, with his stupidly messy bed hair (he wants to reach out and brush it) is at the door.
"Malfoy."
"Potter."
He shoves the offending article of clothing forward, unsure of what to say.
Potter blinks, takes a few awkward moment before realisation dawns. "Oh. That's-"
"You left it in my room."
Potter takes the clothing, and now, Draco doesn't have any excuse to be here. He should leave.
"Do you want to come in? Have a cup of tea?" The 'yes' is on the tip of his tongue and he so desperately wants to go inside, to tread down the hallways he was once familiar with, to categorise all the changes, file them away in his mind.
"No thank you. Mother is expecting me," is what comes out instead. For a moment, he thinks he catches a look of disappointment on Potter's face, before he nods.
"I'll be on my way then."
His parents have signed him up for an internship at the Ministry. It's time, they declare, that he makes some use of his life and education - it's been long enough, and he needs to do something productive with his life. His father still retains the title of the Lordship, and Draco has been slowly accumulating the knowledge that is needed to accept the title over the years.
He cannot say he's looking forward to it.
It's the third day of his internship and he would swear that Potter is stalking him, only he isn't, not really, because Draco just happens to be interning to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (and he wonders how his parents managed to do that, given his track record). Which just happens to be where Potter works.
So.
Draco counts the times, and wonders if Potter is doing this to drive him mad. There is the first, in which they bump into each other in a spectacular shower of papers. Potter hurries to gather the papers, skin brushing against skin for a precious few moments. Draco freezes and stares at him, before he comes back to his senses and begins to pick them up. With a muttered "Mind where you're going," he hurries off and away, leaving a confused Potter staring at him.
Later, he realises that he's taken around half of Potter's paperwork.
Then there is the seventh encounter, in which they're squished together in the elevator so closely he can smell Potter's breath (something with garlic and meat, and not entirely unpleasant) and the scent of his cologne. He leaps out as soon as he can, unable to stand the stuffy atmosphere, and catches sight of Potter's smirk as the elevator doors snap shut.
They, or rather, his department, encountered a particularly nasty case in mid July. Draco had been dragged into the scene, and they had been so usedto him, his sarcastic, but helpful remarks, that they didn't stop to think about "this is the former Death Eater Draco Malfoy" and simply did as told. He could relish the power, or he could relish the fact that these people, these men and women trust in him, are willing to give him a chance, as Draco Malfoy and not "Draco Malfoy Death Eater". It sickeningly nice - trusting, naive - of them, he thinks as he chugs down his... sixth? seventh? bottle of Firewhisky, not even stopping to think about the taste.
That's when Potter staggers over to his quiet table in a corner of the bar. "Yew shold join the parrtey," he slurs, clearly drunk. He maneuvers himself over the bench, and leans into Draco with a happy sigh.
Draco makes a hearted attempt at pushing the warm body, which has placed all of its weight on him, off. "Dun't want to," he slurs back, trying to lift the bottle up to take another drink. He blinks, and suddenly, he's aware that Potter is staring at him, lips parted, eyes wide. Not wanting to see that blank, considering look on Potter's face, he moves forward and presses his lips against Potter's. He can taste the Butterbeer, mixed with traces of other alcohols he doesn't recognise - Muggle ones then - on Potter's tongue.
Potter isn't resisting either. He moves forward, far more enthusiastic than Draco, and perhaps far more in control of his motor functions. There is only the two of them, warm bodies and lips and teeth and noses, pressed against each other, wanting more, more-
A loud cheer interrupts the moment. Luckily, it seems as if nobody has noticed their tryst in the corner of the bar. Draco stumbles backwards, pushes Potter away and catches the brief flash of hurt.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I can't do this." He moves away from the bench, fumbles with his purse and leaves a few Galleons there before he escapes into the darkness of the night, Potter's stupid, stupid eyes still trained on him.
"We need to talk."
Draco congratulates himself for avoiding Granger - and Weasley, he adds on as an afterthought - for so long. But now though, now, they have him cornered and he doubts that anyone will hear his dying screams.
So he does what he does best.
"I wasn't aware you were dating Weasley again," he says, cool and calm and not at all panicking inside. "Or were you looking for someone... More?" Granger's face doesn't move a muscle, although from the corner of his eye, he can see a slight jump in Weasley's jaw.
Surprisingly enough, it's Weasley who speaks first.
"You need to talk to Harry" he says, voice low, level.
"And why do you suppose that I have any business with Potter?" he says, slowly, lazily, a serpent ready to strike.
"You and Harry need to talk. The animosity between the two of you is distracting." Granger again. His eyes flicker towards her, and he opens his mouth to speak when Weasley makes an unexpected outburst.
"Oh just shut up and snog him already," he snaps, face beginning to turn as bright as his hair. "I don't know why he fancies a git like you, but he does and-"
"You and Harry clearly like each other, and there isn't anything to stop you apart from yourselves!"
He opens his mouth to protest when he sees Granger's wand dangerously close to his face. "I think we aren't being obvious enough." Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a tiny nod from Weasley. "Go and talk to Harry," Granger says, her words a command. Her eyes narrow, as if she's noticed his attention has drifted. "Make up with him or I'll show you how good of a spell caster I am with unpleasant and borderline illegal hexes." Her smile is sharp and vicious, and more of a predatory leer than anything that could reasonably be called smile. That would imply pleasantness on behalf of the smiling party.
He nods slowly, and she removes her wand from his face with a smile, saccharine sweet. "Good."
As she walks away, he wonders how Weasley managed to tame a woman like that. Looking at the way he trails behind her though, he thinks it's likely that Granger was the one who'd tamed Weasley.
He waits another month before he next visits the Potter house, mindful of Hermione's threats. Even so, a bloke needs time to think, to ponder.
A plethora of words bubble to the forefront of his mind as he walks down the winding road. There are so many things he should say, 'I like you.' 'Can I come back?' 'Will you take me back?' 'I'm sorry'. He doesn't know what to say, where to start though, because there is so much, so much that weighs him down.
There is no one to greet him at the door, but it opens as his hand drifts towards the handle. He slowly steps into house, his eyes taking in every aspect of his surroundings. There is a clear mark of Granger's influence in the decor - it's neat, doesn't require too much cleaning, and, he notes, perfectly aligned. The same as it had been. There are a few extra pictures, hanging on the wall. In the end though, nothing much has changed from what it used to be.
A familiar melody drifts around the house, embraces him and draws him into a familiar illusion, an illusion of mourners, shaking their heads, swaying to and fro. He follows his ears to where the music is coming from, the steps familiar to him as the beat of his own heart. He shakes it off, because there are people... A person, waiting.
Potter- and it's a habit he doubts he'll ever really get rid of, it was like this before too - doesn't stop playing as he walks into the room. But he does look up to give him a fond smile, and Draco thinks his heart skips a beat because there is something that is so warm in those eyes.
That's when he realises.
There is no need for extraneous words, or platitudes of love and eternity. There is no need for hugs and kisses or anything.
"I'm back," he says, a small smile touching his lips.
Potter looks at him. "Welcome home."