Title: It Was a Long Time Ago
Author: Jasper Sky
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is SO not mine.
---
It was a long time ago.
No one remembered anymore, not really. He watched his image dejectedly watch him in return, sneering, depressed, undeniably sad, a little jostled as it was reflected from the liquid in his cup. Goblet. He firmly reminded himself that it was a goblet, because when he thought about it, it sounded more important that way. Bigger. Better. It was supposed to make himself feel better about things, what happened so long ago, that he never talked about, and no one else knew to talk about. When did things go so wrong?
He frowned, his image frowned back, and he knocked his cup-- goblet-- over, quickly, in a little spurt of violent anger that even surprised him a little. It slithered unhappily across the floor; a waitress paused in her work to purse her lips and squint at him with eyes a funny cross between green and blue, her hair a kind of mix of blond and red. She picked it up, replacing it upright, and stared at him for a second, small mouth open to say something, jaw working... Then her funny eyes caught sight of something across the room, and she looked sheepish for a moment, dipping her chin when she backed away. Wordless. Didn't anyone talk anymore, he wondered?
/Not to you/.
He frowned, his silvery grey eyes-- he supposed they were a funny color, too-- flickering around the room. What had it been, her superior that scared her off? Probably. Hopefully. Why not.
He leaned against his chair-- hard, wooden, it was. That's what he deserved, he supposed, for loitering about in such..such.. common, lower-class pubs, for lack of a better word. Kind of.
Pressing his thumb and index finger to the bridge of his nose, he leaned his head forward and let his blond hair slide over his forehead and into his eyes. His hair was funny, too. Blond; too blond. White, maybe? No, more silver. But still with that hint of blond. Pale, then, that's all. Pale blond. His skin was pale, too. Lots of things about him were pale.
His soul was pale.
He heaved a sigh, looked at his empty goblet, and managed a completely emotionless expression that left him confused as to what he was even thinking. Pulled a face. He pushed his chair away from the table a bit, still with his head bowed, fingers pressed to his nose, and shook his head. How had he sunk to this?
And then he felt it, /him/, his presence, and he remembered, and he suddenly became more bitter and angry and sad than he had been in all the years since /it/ had happened. He purposely turned his head the opposite way when he heard a chair scraping on the floor and a weight dropping down next to him. A sigh, like the one he'd breathed previously, and the feeling of nervousness. It vibrated between them.
"Malfoy." Quietly.
"Potter." Just as quietly.
Draco felt like he was staring at his reflection again. Mimicking himself, somehow. He didn't like it. "What do you want, Potter?" he asked, sounding tired and old even though he was still in his teens, and pulled his hand from his face. He turned his face, ashen, burnt out eyes, and stared at the boy next to him. Lacking passion, emotion, and his previously customary sneer.
"You've been missing."
He could think of a million sarcastic things to say, but he folded his hands and looked at his lap. He couldn't very well knock Potter over and expect all the dreadful mocking to come spilling out across the floor. He almost smirked, thinking of the waitress pressing her lips into a thin line and glaring at him while she placed Harry upright, empty, but no longer posing a threat. Draco shook his head to clear it.
"Yes, I have."
Harry seemed to fumble for a moment. He removed his glasses, rubbed them against his clothing to clean it, then replaced them. His mouth opened, to say something as Draco looked at him, just /looked/ at him with clear, glazed pearl eyes. And he frowned.
"Why?"
Draco thought about it, looking into emerald eyes and wondering why something that resembled a blunt, inanimate stone could be so vivid. Expressive. He was jealous, suddenly, that something like that existed. But he let it pass. His heart thumped at Harry's question when he thought about the answer. Because....
//Hopeless. What was he going to do? He slipped over himself in his attempt to get away. His face was wet and his eyes were sore-- red, puffy, and rather unattractive, in his opinion. Crying always was unattractive, anyway. Father said so. So wrapped up in that stupid pride. "You will never cry, because you are a Malfoy." If only he could see him now.. But before his thoughts wandered too far, he stumbled again, and tumbled head-first into a dark, hard figure. He looked upwards, slowly, and swallowed rather roughly with what he saw.
"Father."
And he closed his eyes, the tears leaking out, and went to his knees, faced with such a horrible sight he never thought he'd see. His shoulders shook, harshly, while the tips of his father's shoes swayed in the doorway, his neck crunched, suspended from the ceiling by some sort of strong rope. He held his hands over his mouth, feeling the urge to vomit. Hopeless..//
His mouth twitched. "Personal matters, Potter," he said, and stood, leaving his pay on the table and walking determinedly away.
But it wouldn't have been Harry if he hadn't followed.
"You've been missing for two years, Malfoy. Those 'personal matters' must have been pretty damn important to keep you so emotionally distraught that you had to disappear clean away for /two years/."
Again, a twitch. He would have smiled if he remembered how, sarcastic, sad. "They were," he said, softly, and turned to face the wild head of dark hair and expressive green eyes. "They most definitely /were/."
The fire in Harry's eyes died down. He went soft. "What happened?" he asked.
A shrug, off-handed looking, but the troubled sadness in silvery gray eyes betrayed him. "I had some problems with my parents." Draco turned to the side, his light-colored profile proving a dark contrast to the mucky background of the pub behind him, and he tilted his head to the side. "How's life back in Hogwarts, anyway?" Most definitely changing the subject. His eyes were dull. "Horrible, I hope." No passion behind his insults. No emotion in his eyes. Harry drew back a step, surprised.
"What /happened/?"
"Listen, Potter," Draco sounded so tired with life, and his grey eyes were so.... "I don't want to talk about it, especially not with /you/, so why don't you sod off and let me contemplate how long, exactly, it's going to take me to get to hell."
"Everyone thinks you're dead."
"Well, /good/!" And he threw his hands into the air, the first sign of emotion at all, save for sadness and depressing melancholy. "I might as well be, and I wish you were, too!"
"You don't mean that."
"I do." A glare. Then a sigh. "How did you find me?" Complete switch of topic, change of gears. He could almost hear them grinding at the abruptness of it all.
"Chance. Luck." Harry shrugged. "A hunch."
"A hunch, well that's bloody /brilliant/."
"I know."
Draco pressed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger again, shook his head a little, and refused to look at the boy opposite him. "What do you /want/, Potter? Why won't you just /leave/?"
"Dumbledore was looking for you."
He had the grace to looked surprised, then suspicious. He raised his eyebrows while still, somehow, managing a scowl. "I thought you said everyone thought I was dead, hmm?"
"He does."
"Then why the bloody hell is he looking for me? What's he want, my ghost, or my bodily remains so he can /burn/ them?"
"No, he /was/ looking for you, I said." Harry's eyebrows bent, inwards, as he took on a face of concentration and frustration. "It was after he discovered your parents were dead," -- he neglected to notice how Draco tensed here -- "and had people looking for you." His face screwed up a little. "But no one could, we tried for a /year/, you'll understand, and he figured you for dead and went about mumbling, 'waste of a good ally,' and wouldn't tell me what he meant." He raised his eyes a little to meet Draco's. "Maybe you can explain."
He made a noise that sounded like a sigh. Exasperated, maybe. /I thought they'd all forgotten about this/, Draco thought to himself. /About *me*/. "No, I can't," he said, and turned to walk away. Harry snatched a handful of his shirt and pulled him back.
"I think you should see him."
Draco scowled. "Who, Dumbledore? No."
"Why /not/?" Harry hissed at him. "You're just being cowardly again!"
And the words hit him like stone. /...cowardly again./ He shook his head and told himself he wasn't going to cry-- not in front of Potter. His pride was still strong. "I," he began, prying Harry's hand away from him, "am not a coward, firstly. You wouldn't understand. You rush into things, stupidly, and don't apologize when you knock delicate things over, mainly because you don't notice." He shoved him away. "Don't try to /sympathize/," he bit out, "or /pity/ me. I don't want it from you. I don't want it from your friends. I want to live alone, talk to no one, especially not /you/, and count the days left that I have to remain here until I can finally /leave/."
Harry suddenly looked angry, his hands clutched up into fists, and his eyes stood out brilliantly in his anger. "In that case, Malfoy, then why don't you just /kill/ yourself!"
And the most sad expression Harry had ever seen sprung onto Malfoy's face. It surprised him, but it only lasted a moment and he wasn't quite sure if he'd seen it.
"Because," Draco said, slowly, "/that/ is a coward's way out." This time, when he turned and walked, Harry did not stop him. He spoke quietly, not caring if Harry heard or not. "My father was a coward." A pause. "And mother was, as well."
Harry did not follow him. He wasn't sure wether to be unhappy or satisfied. Closing his eyes after he made it around a corner away from where he'd met with Potter, he leaned against the alleyway wall and bumped his head against it. No one remembered anymore, not really. Harry and himself, apparently. He felt the tears falling down his face before he felt the sadness falling through his body. "It was a long time ago," he told himself, and touched a finger to the salty wetness on his cheek. He pulled a face and wiped it on his pants. "Why can't I let it go..?"
---
Author's Notes:
My first Harry Potter fic. It'll have a lot of nice Harry/Draco romance later, I promise. There's a plot in there somewhere. There's more to be written; for anyone who wants it, leave a review. Please.
Author: Jasper Sky
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is SO not mine.
---
It was a long time ago.
No one remembered anymore, not really. He watched his image dejectedly watch him in return, sneering, depressed, undeniably sad, a little jostled as it was reflected from the liquid in his cup. Goblet. He firmly reminded himself that it was a goblet, because when he thought about it, it sounded more important that way. Bigger. Better. It was supposed to make himself feel better about things, what happened so long ago, that he never talked about, and no one else knew to talk about. When did things go so wrong?
He frowned, his image frowned back, and he knocked his cup-- goblet-- over, quickly, in a little spurt of violent anger that even surprised him a little. It slithered unhappily across the floor; a waitress paused in her work to purse her lips and squint at him with eyes a funny cross between green and blue, her hair a kind of mix of blond and red. She picked it up, replacing it upright, and stared at him for a second, small mouth open to say something, jaw working... Then her funny eyes caught sight of something across the room, and she looked sheepish for a moment, dipping her chin when she backed away. Wordless. Didn't anyone talk anymore, he wondered?
/Not to you/.
He frowned, his silvery grey eyes-- he supposed they were a funny color, too-- flickering around the room. What had it been, her superior that scared her off? Probably. Hopefully. Why not.
He leaned against his chair-- hard, wooden, it was. That's what he deserved, he supposed, for loitering about in such..such.. common, lower-class pubs, for lack of a better word. Kind of.
Pressing his thumb and index finger to the bridge of his nose, he leaned his head forward and let his blond hair slide over his forehead and into his eyes. His hair was funny, too. Blond; too blond. White, maybe? No, more silver. But still with that hint of blond. Pale, then, that's all. Pale blond. His skin was pale, too. Lots of things about him were pale.
His soul was pale.
He heaved a sigh, looked at his empty goblet, and managed a completely emotionless expression that left him confused as to what he was even thinking. Pulled a face. He pushed his chair away from the table a bit, still with his head bowed, fingers pressed to his nose, and shook his head. How had he sunk to this?
And then he felt it, /him/, his presence, and he remembered, and he suddenly became more bitter and angry and sad than he had been in all the years since /it/ had happened. He purposely turned his head the opposite way when he heard a chair scraping on the floor and a weight dropping down next to him. A sigh, like the one he'd breathed previously, and the feeling of nervousness. It vibrated between them.
"Malfoy." Quietly.
"Potter." Just as quietly.
Draco felt like he was staring at his reflection again. Mimicking himself, somehow. He didn't like it. "What do you want, Potter?" he asked, sounding tired and old even though he was still in his teens, and pulled his hand from his face. He turned his face, ashen, burnt out eyes, and stared at the boy next to him. Lacking passion, emotion, and his previously customary sneer.
"You've been missing."
He could think of a million sarcastic things to say, but he folded his hands and looked at his lap. He couldn't very well knock Potter over and expect all the dreadful mocking to come spilling out across the floor. He almost smirked, thinking of the waitress pressing her lips into a thin line and glaring at him while she placed Harry upright, empty, but no longer posing a threat. Draco shook his head to clear it.
"Yes, I have."
Harry seemed to fumble for a moment. He removed his glasses, rubbed them against his clothing to clean it, then replaced them. His mouth opened, to say something as Draco looked at him, just /looked/ at him with clear, glazed pearl eyes. And he frowned.
"Why?"
Draco thought about it, looking into emerald eyes and wondering why something that resembled a blunt, inanimate stone could be so vivid. Expressive. He was jealous, suddenly, that something like that existed. But he let it pass. His heart thumped at Harry's question when he thought about the answer. Because....
//Hopeless. What was he going to do? He slipped over himself in his attempt to get away. His face was wet and his eyes were sore-- red, puffy, and rather unattractive, in his opinion. Crying always was unattractive, anyway. Father said so. So wrapped up in that stupid pride. "You will never cry, because you are a Malfoy." If only he could see him now.. But before his thoughts wandered too far, he stumbled again, and tumbled head-first into a dark, hard figure. He looked upwards, slowly, and swallowed rather roughly with what he saw.
"Father."
And he closed his eyes, the tears leaking out, and went to his knees, faced with such a horrible sight he never thought he'd see. His shoulders shook, harshly, while the tips of his father's shoes swayed in the doorway, his neck crunched, suspended from the ceiling by some sort of strong rope. He held his hands over his mouth, feeling the urge to vomit. Hopeless..//
His mouth twitched. "Personal matters, Potter," he said, and stood, leaving his pay on the table and walking determinedly away.
But it wouldn't have been Harry if he hadn't followed.
"You've been missing for two years, Malfoy. Those 'personal matters' must have been pretty damn important to keep you so emotionally distraught that you had to disappear clean away for /two years/."
Again, a twitch. He would have smiled if he remembered how, sarcastic, sad. "They were," he said, softly, and turned to face the wild head of dark hair and expressive green eyes. "They most definitely /were/."
The fire in Harry's eyes died down. He went soft. "What happened?" he asked.
A shrug, off-handed looking, but the troubled sadness in silvery gray eyes betrayed him. "I had some problems with my parents." Draco turned to the side, his light-colored profile proving a dark contrast to the mucky background of the pub behind him, and he tilted his head to the side. "How's life back in Hogwarts, anyway?" Most definitely changing the subject. His eyes were dull. "Horrible, I hope." No passion behind his insults. No emotion in his eyes. Harry drew back a step, surprised.
"What /happened/?"
"Listen, Potter," Draco sounded so tired with life, and his grey eyes were so.... "I don't want to talk about it, especially not with /you/, so why don't you sod off and let me contemplate how long, exactly, it's going to take me to get to hell."
"Everyone thinks you're dead."
"Well, /good/!" And he threw his hands into the air, the first sign of emotion at all, save for sadness and depressing melancholy. "I might as well be, and I wish you were, too!"
"You don't mean that."
"I do." A glare. Then a sigh. "How did you find me?" Complete switch of topic, change of gears. He could almost hear them grinding at the abruptness of it all.
"Chance. Luck." Harry shrugged. "A hunch."
"A hunch, well that's bloody /brilliant/."
"I know."
Draco pressed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger again, shook his head a little, and refused to look at the boy opposite him. "What do you /want/, Potter? Why won't you just /leave/?"
"Dumbledore was looking for you."
He had the grace to looked surprised, then suspicious. He raised his eyebrows while still, somehow, managing a scowl. "I thought you said everyone thought I was dead, hmm?"
"He does."
"Then why the bloody hell is he looking for me? What's he want, my ghost, or my bodily remains so he can /burn/ them?"
"No, he /was/ looking for you, I said." Harry's eyebrows bent, inwards, as he took on a face of concentration and frustration. "It was after he discovered your parents were dead," -- he neglected to notice how Draco tensed here -- "and had people looking for you." His face screwed up a little. "But no one could, we tried for a /year/, you'll understand, and he figured you for dead and went about mumbling, 'waste of a good ally,' and wouldn't tell me what he meant." He raised his eyes a little to meet Draco's. "Maybe you can explain."
He made a noise that sounded like a sigh. Exasperated, maybe. /I thought they'd all forgotten about this/, Draco thought to himself. /About *me*/. "No, I can't," he said, and turned to walk away. Harry snatched a handful of his shirt and pulled him back.
"I think you should see him."
Draco scowled. "Who, Dumbledore? No."
"Why /not/?" Harry hissed at him. "You're just being cowardly again!"
And the words hit him like stone. /...cowardly again./ He shook his head and told himself he wasn't going to cry-- not in front of Potter. His pride was still strong. "I," he began, prying Harry's hand away from him, "am not a coward, firstly. You wouldn't understand. You rush into things, stupidly, and don't apologize when you knock delicate things over, mainly because you don't notice." He shoved him away. "Don't try to /sympathize/," he bit out, "or /pity/ me. I don't want it from you. I don't want it from your friends. I want to live alone, talk to no one, especially not /you/, and count the days left that I have to remain here until I can finally /leave/."
Harry suddenly looked angry, his hands clutched up into fists, and his eyes stood out brilliantly in his anger. "In that case, Malfoy, then why don't you just /kill/ yourself!"
And the most sad expression Harry had ever seen sprung onto Malfoy's face. It surprised him, but it only lasted a moment and he wasn't quite sure if he'd seen it.
"Because," Draco said, slowly, "/that/ is a coward's way out." This time, when he turned and walked, Harry did not stop him. He spoke quietly, not caring if Harry heard or not. "My father was a coward." A pause. "And mother was, as well."
Harry did not follow him. He wasn't sure wether to be unhappy or satisfied. Closing his eyes after he made it around a corner away from where he'd met with Potter, he leaned against the alleyway wall and bumped his head against it. No one remembered anymore, not really. Harry and himself, apparently. He felt the tears falling down his face before he felt the sadness falling through his body. "It was a long time ago," he told himself, and touched a finger to the salty wetness on his cheek. He pulled a face and wiped it on his pants. "Why can't I let it go..?"
---
Author's Notes:
My first Harry Potter fic. It'll have a lot of nice Harry/Draco romance later, I promise. There's a plot in there somewhere. There's more to be written; for anyone who wants it, leave a review. Please.