This story is dedicated to Spiffing Repartee for his wonderful reviews and encouragement. Thank you.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize and I'm not writing this for profit.
BURNING PAPER HOUSES
Prologue
It was the heat he remembered most, the burn of it across his skin; smoldering hot and uncontrollable -and to Draco, undeniably comforting. If he closed his eyes and let himself think of the war that's what sprung to mind first. The heat. There was always a fire burning during that time and if you concentrated hard enough on the sound of the cracking flames you could drown out the screams. If you watched the flickering of the golden colours that licked almost gently as they consumed its prey you could ignore the pleading, begging eyes of the victims that piled high around him.
But it was more then that. The heat danced across his cooled skin, warming it till his flesh could almost burn at the touch, so different form the never ending cold that had settled inside him. The flecks of ash fell from the sky, almost indistinguishable from the falling snow, caressed his flesh and settled in his hair and robes burning both from the cold and the heat. Sometimes if he thought about the heat enough, the rest of the nightmare wouldn't come, and if it did, he could almost endure it.
Nights were still spent waking at the slightest noise, wand held tightly in his hand under his pillow, his companion for the night doing little to keep the desperate chill at bay, but still he hung close to the heat, wishing for more, for it to burn him, sear him, maybe melt a little of the cold inside.
It seemed an endless stream of companions warmed his sheets these days. It seemed just as often that their presence did nothing to warm him from the chill of the nights and his memories.
Roxy had been small, thin and young and charmed people with her innate innocence, Draco privately called it her overwhelming naivety though this was never said out loud. She unsettled Draco more then he cared to admit. He hated the way her thin body curled around him, trusting and fragile. It felt like he would break her to push her away. She, like many of her predecessors, loved his scars, thought they were sexy and trendy and would trace them while he lay unmoving beside her. Her hands, so small against the expanse of his broadened chest, small delicate bones covered by soft unblemished skin that seemed too small, too innocent. He saw in those hands his own ability to over power her if he so wished it.
Draco hated his scars, the one across his cheekbone, more a silver line across ivory then a real scar; it shone in the flickering of candle light and reminded him always of the taste of hot, metal-sharp blood on his tongue. The ones across his shoulders and chest, deep cuts and wounds that had burned and felt on fire when he received them, now nothing more then lines like a child's drawing that tell a story of all he lived through in the war, though none could tell of the fear and the pain and the overwhelming cold that he remembered.
Roxy liked to show him off like a piece of flashy jewelry, show him to her trendy friends and have them ooh and ahh over how his pale skin and white blonde hair made his grey-blue eyes tenfold more vibrant, the way he held himself with aristocratic grace and yet fought like a wild animal when challenged.
Draco's never been a trophy before, there was a time when he thought he never would be, the idea was preposterous, a Malfoy? Never! Now he seemed to be just that, and the thought sickened him.
Roxy had been a mistake, so had Lucy, and Sadie and Eleanor. After the war everything seemed to be a mistake. It seemed like people just moved on, forgot about the war and all those terrible things that happened to them, to their friends, to faceless strangers. It made him sick sometimes, to see how the wizarding world -once ravaged by war, hidden away in dirty back rooms, never knowing allies from foes- seemed able to just move on.
Pansy often joked about before; would laugh a high tinkling laugh like wine glasses being knocked together. Others would smile and nod and sometimes join in, making it seem like a simple change of government, an un-monumental occurrence, not something that changed the world, with no little loss of life. Blaise would meet Draco's gaze across the room, his eyes clear and unreadable to many, and they would share a silent moment, unnoticed by anybody else, where anger and frustration flashed in another's eyes and they shared their horror at how blasé and flippant others seemed to be. It was never spoken out loud, never confirmed, but it was there, the brief glimmer of hope that they were not alone.
It sometimes scared Draco how fast the world moved on, he never seemed able to catch up anymore, there was a time when he was one of the smartest and fastest wizards of his time, and its all still in there. It just takes him a moment longer because everyone's talking and moving so fast around him he just wants to catch his breath, to rest for a moment. Though sleep doesn't come as easy as it used to, sometimes it feels like he's drowning, and the screams and explosions are so loud he doesn't know how anyone can sleep through it. Those are always there, he doesn't understand how people can talk over it, let alone laugh; high tinkling laughs that grate on his every nerve.
Increasingly often he found himself sitting in a dingy smoke filled corner of a muggle pub, hidden down a back street that went mostly unnoticed. He liked the quite of the place, the low murmur of voices and the clinking of glasses, the smell of the cigarette and cigar smoke that swirled around the room making patterns in the air, grey against blue against white, sometimes he saw faces in the smoke, other times places, sometimes he just saw meaningless swirls that entranced him.
But mostly he liked that they left him alone, let him sit and drink his drink in silence, nobody cast him sidelong glances, a mix of fear, awe and disgust colouring their gaze. He may have been given his freedom, but as far as society was concerned he was and would forever be Death Eater filth, a disgrace like his father, because the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, and Lucius Malfoy had caused more pain to more people that many others. This would not be forgotten, and though his father was now long dead, the fear for him lived on.
This pub was also good that it was run by good people, the kind you hear about but never seem to meet. The bar tenders always pause before each refill, make sure this drink won't be the one to push him over the edge. They make sure he drinks to relax not relaxes because he drinks. There's a fine line between enjoying a drink alone and falling prey to loneliness and booze. He knows this, has walked that line himself. It's called addiction, and Draco knows it well.
Addiction in the wizarding world is a thousand times more destructive then in the muggle. As with many things, wizards go one step further, one step more uncontrollable. Magic is the worst addiction, because it's a part of you, it's in your blood and you mind and the very way your body moves, you cant go anywhere without it trailing behind you like an unwanted shadow, a child tugging at its mothers robe constantly in need of attention, of affection till tears fall unabated from the mother out of sheer frustration.
He holds his head high, all aristocratic posturing and pureblood pride, hiding the floating objects that help only slightly to sooth the jagged edge of his desperation, his uncontrollable, unrelenting Need.
When he visits his mother in St Mungos he walks with purpose through the corridors, passing all types of injuries, some that can be cured, given time and the right magic. Others will never be fixed, and the magic they bleed into them just keeps them suspended for a while longer. Like dolls, lifeless and pointless -a shadow of their former selves. He hates to see them as he passes the rooms, their glassy eyes staring back at him. He sees himself reflected there and it scares him.
Sometimes Draco thinks someone will notice, it's strange to him that nobody ever does. How can they not see the flimsy replica of his old self? And sometimes he thinks they do. They just don't mention it because he's a pureblood, and he's a wizard; and they don't talk about such things.
Its seems unavoidable that someone will find out, and know without a shadow of a doubt that the only time he feels alive any more is when the heat of his magic embraces him, and the world around him crackles with his magic and for that all too brief moment he is warm.
Sometimes it seems that he's too obvious, leaving too many clues and surviving one too many close encounters that are hard to explain, so often he doesn't, simply raises a questioning, taunting eyebrow and stares at them with cool reserve. The woman of the night rolls over in her sleep and reaches out for the place he should be; all she finds is cold sheets. His secretary walks in on him staring a little to intently at the bottle of ink that he's hovering, raising his eyes to meet hers, colour high on his cheeks, as it drops like a weight to the table, ink spilling out over the contents of his desk. Sometimes it's just too hard to explain, when he knows they won't understand. So instead he pretends.
Draco admits only to himself that he knows and understands dependence; he's struggled with it since the war, clawed his way up from the pits it has dropped him in, alone and determined, piecing his life back together bit by bit until he resembles more strongly his former self. He's overcome two of his strongest vices –muggle heroin and wizard whiskey, they were relatively easy he thinks mockingly to himself. In hindsight it always is.
The magic he has never been able to let go of, but he watches himself, keeps himself aware, looks out for red flags and warning signs as their called in rehabs and all those self help books he pretends he doesn't own, sometimes he pushes himself, sees how far he can go, how far he can submerge himself into the irresistiblely warm magic before he eventually has to pull himself back, claw his way out until his fingers are red and raw and his body is covered in the scratches he's given himself and his voice is hoarse from the screams he wont let out and his head is still buzzing from the magic that's all around him. Sometimes it feels like he won't be able to get out this time.
He knows and understands addiction and that's why when he see's it reflected in the eyes of some one else he knows just how far they've fallen.
It doesn't even surprise him that he sees that destruction in the famous Harry Potter.
He noticed him the moment he entered the pub, a figure hunched against the cold wrapped in a black coat that matched his hair, a slow, deliberate walk giving him plenty of time to survey his surroundings but not making it obvious. Draco was familiar with that slow practiced pace, he adopted it often himself. The figure slumped down into his chair an imitation of casual weariness, leaned forward onto the bar and gave a quick survey of the room before nodding briskly to the bartender as he placed a pint in front of him.
Draco's own drink sat before him, a ring of condensation left perfect circles on the counter in front of him and he ran a finger through the moisture, drawing pictures that made no sense.
He felt the gaze on him, felt it burn across his flesh and leave trails of fire where they roamed. Try as he might he couldn't ignore it so he glanced causally at the cause, knowing what would meet his gaze even before he saw it. Emerald eyes, bright and brilliant like the flash of the killing curse met his. There was a moment of stillness before Draco inclined his head, lifting his glass and downing the rest in one swallow before raising to leave, nodding to the bartender as he left some crumpled notes on the counter, walking briskly out the door and into the chill of late evening. The grime on the walls and orange glow of the street lights more welcoming and familiar then his own bed lately.
Draco knows that the world is different to how it used to be, no matter how much people deny it. Nobody comes back from war whole. He thinks how it isn't a surprise that Harry is as destroyed as he is himself.
BPH BPH BPH BPH BPH BPH BPH BPH BPH BPH
The burn. That's what he remembered most. The way the magic burned inside him, building brighter and brighter all the while becoming hotter, so hot it seemed like he couldn't possibly stand it much longer, that soon his body would burn up, explode from the unbearable heat. White hot fury that flashed black red and white behind his eyes until he had no other option then to let it out, the only way he could.
Harry would wake, gasping for breath that wouldn't come, cold sweat prickling his skin and eyes wide and unseeing. Shivers raked his body and his hand clasped desperately around his wand. He didn't even know how it got there; Ginny had made him stop sleeping with his wand under his pillow.
There were nights when he would wake and the room would be alive, furniture and books floating around the room at uncontrollable speeds. He would stutter an excuse in the morning if Ginny noticed any changes to the room. She always accepted the explanation, never thinking twice about it.
He didn't talk about the dreams, War changed everyone, and Harry had seen more then others. Sometimes he thinks Ginny just didn't notice, she slept like the dead, and nothing in this world could wake her unless she wished it.
After the war everything was different, and at the same time, was so determinedly the same. Nobody mentioned the war; though it was the one thing that tied them all together. Nobody mentioned it and sometimes Harry could believe that they really had just moved on. He would watch as they go through their days, drinking coffees and eating salads, wearing fashionable robes and walking around their offices with such purpose. They seemed to have forgotten all they went through, all they fought for. What people died for.
And the thought terrified him.
His dreams were haunted by what he had seen, what he had done, the way the magic had enveloping him, burning hot and the only thing in this world he could rely on.
He would close his eyes at night, the last thing he would heard was Ginny's soft sleep murmurs, and suddenly he was opening them again to the sight of harsh flames eating slowly at another unremarkable house, the screams loud in the night and the taste of ash on his tongue. Other times he was alone, cold stone rooms and tunnels that never ended, flashes of the dark mark suspended heavy and satisfied in the sky, over another ruined town glowing so bright the moon looked wane compared to it.
All his life he'd wanted to be normal, and when he finally got the chance to be just that, he seemed unable to. He watched as others moved on around him, their ambitions and dreams so different now.
Sometimes it was like a blur, they were all moving and talking so fast about inconsequential things. He seemed lost, like he'd missed a homework assignment or two somewhere along the way and now was expected to understand what was going on.
He tried, oh how he tried, he smiled at the cameras, ate breakfast before work, lunch with a colleague or two and had a drink on the weekend with his friends, loud voices and broad smiles hearing stories about so-and-so and getting the inside scoop on whatever was the latest news breaking story. But to him it never connected, never really made sense. After fighting so long to have a chance to be normal, he wanted to love it. To have his happily ever after that everyone believer he deserved. So he tried. Forced smiles making his cheeks hurt, while his mind buzzed loudly with the idle gossip and shocking stories that ran rampant through the ministry, his neighborhood, seemingly everywhere. He couldn't escape it no matter how hard he tried, couldn't drown it out.
Harry married Ginny the year after she finished Hogwarts. They had decided to wait, for Ginny to finish school and him to get settled into Auror training. And though it was never said out loud, as a mark of respect for those who had died.
Ginny had looked beautiful at their wedding, a figure in white and cream that smiled the whole day and glittered with magic and happiness. Harry watched her, beaming and blissful with the realization of all her dreams and felt strangely cold inside, like a cube of dread settling in his stomach, dousing any fire that existed. They were the perfect couple: he, the dashing hero, strong and brave and handsome. She, the poster-child of virtue and innocence, the high-school sweetheart. It would have made him sick if he hadn't longed for that sense of normal so badly.
They lived in a small town house near London; convenient and nice and so heartbreakingly normal. Harry went each day to the ministry, kissing his wife goodbye before leaving. He was training as an Auror, Ginny as a teacher. Their marriage was a happy one; they lived in peaceful routine, the quintessential couple.
And Harry had never been more scared.
He was scared of the way she smiled all the time, as though nothing could penetrate the bubble of joy around her, when all he saw was risks and dangers around every corner. He hated the way she patted his shoulder almost patronizingly when he complained about his training, how they were fools and stupid and wouldn't know real danger if it danced in front of them. And oh how it danced; dark like shadowed rooms, elegantly like silk in the wind and so terribly seductive like the sway of a snake ready to strike.
His dreams were full of it. As they had always been, but now he wasn't shocked and scared of it like his teenage self had been. Now he studies it, watches the way the evil figures from his memory danced with their magic, swayed and swooped, hissing curses though clenched teeth.
For a while he could fool himself into thinking it was all alright. His training was strenuous, a steady stream of new spells to learn and perfect and a regular use for his magic. But then the questions started, he couldn't stop himself from asking them though he knew they made him different, his questioning of routine was unheard of before 'Why do that when the enemy was clearly going to counter-attack like so…?' 'Why waste time with a maneuver like that when you could use half the men and half the time and have the same results…?' the others training with him seemed to exist in a mix of bewildered awe, jealousy and annoyance.
He didn't understand why the trainers talked about what they did as the right thing, they spoke about it like it was glamorous and noble, and at the same time was so clinical about the practical aspects of their work, as though knowing the right spell is all that is needed and it will all work out in the end. They ignored the push of adrenaline that made concentrating difficult; they didn't mention how magic became thick in the air till it was almost suffocating. Didn't they remember? Didn't they remember hiding out, lonely days and even lonelier nights stretching on seemingly forever? Didn't they remember washing blood from their hands? Holding their comrades as they lay dying? Didn't they remember the burning hot embers or anger and the need to inflict pain? Didn't they remember the way the magic wrapped itself around them, hot and bright and so very powerful…
Harry developed a routine to get through life; he pretended to be normal, he worked so hard on it he almost convinced himself. But even he could see that he was spending more and more time away from home, just so he wouldn't have to see the brightly coloured walls and chat inanely about this and that with Ginny. But to the world he was the perfect husband, finished his Auror training and was a dedicated worker, he lived the perfect life. It was an easy routine, an easy life. They were comfortable and Harry thought, happy. Until the day Ginny, smiling and bursting with happiness told him she was pregnant.
The Weasley family celebrated long and loud, they told everyone and it seemed the world knew over night. He was ambushed in the corridors at work, in the streets, in the shops, all by well-meaning strangers just bursting with happiness for him.
More then ever he felt completely out of the loop, this was another one of 'those things' the ones other people were taught how to deal with, what's normal to feel, to act, to think. Somehow he missed that lesson while he was out being anything but normal. But despite this, he smiled and nodded, accepting the congratulations with a cheeky grin; he held Ginny close to him and kissed her hair as he smiled broadly to the world. Nobody noticed or needed to know that he watched his wife's belly grow larger with barely restrained horror, that his mind spun into blurs when they discussed decorating the baby's room and the only way to continue smiling was to float small objects around behind everyone's backs as Ginny bustled around, the proud mother-to-be.
He started frequenting muggle pubs soon after Ginny's announcement. Muggle so he wouldn't be recognized, muggle so he could be invisible for a few moments, muggle so the stench of magic was a bit fainter. He liked the anonymity of the old muggle pubs that dotted the London landscape, dimly lit places where all sound is muted by old wood and the aroma of cigarette smoke, he chose these places so he could sit in silence and drink slow, deliberate mouthfuls and nobody raised a question, nobody cared. To them he was just another lonely soul that wandered the night. He didn't have to be a hero; he didn't have to be normal. The irony didn't escape him that the moment he gets what he's always wanted; he looks for a way to escape it.
Ginny never asked. She assumed he was out with Ron; they were always so close it was a logical conclusion. Harry didn't bother correcting her, he didn't think he could explain it if he tried.
It should have surprised him more then it did to see the hunched figure of Draco Malfoy in the corner of a dingy muggle pub, hidden down a back street; the smell of cigarette smoke thick in the air along with the scent of old wood and yeasty beer.
It should have surprised him more then it did to see him again after the first time, and again after that.
When James was born, Harry stared down at him, so small, so full of life, so full of magic, in his wife's arms and felt the world fall out from under him. He couldn't bear to touch him, to feel that raw magic seeping out of his son, to see those green eyes -so like his own- stare up at him, accusing and knowing as he floated the heavy vase of flowers on the bedside table without meaning to.
He nearly sobbed his thanks when the healer ushered him out claiming Ginny needed her rest. He started for home, but halfway there he thought of the empty space, of brightly coloured walls and the overwhelming stench of clean linen and flowers that always seemed to permeate the air. He didn't even realize where he was headed until he found himself entering the same dark little pub off a side street in the centre of London, nodding a greeting to the hunched figure, who raised his drink in toast as a reply. He was absurdly happy to catch the cool grey eyes and see that he wasn't alone.
A/N
Here's a revised version of Burning Paper Houses. It's not going to be a long story; well at least I don't think it will be. The next chapter should be out shortly, lets hope so anyway.
Please review, it gets me writing faster.
And thanks to Spiffing Repartee for the awsome summary, I'm sadly not very good at them.