A/N: "I don't own anything." Right then. Now, on to other things- this is my newest project. My other two chaptered stories are 'The Dragon in Winter' (finished) and 'Palindromes' (WIP). Go check them out and review, as I'm reasonably proud enough of my brainchildren to want to pimp them madly.
Note that both are slash, as this will be. Note also that this fic may quite possibly get to be more graphic with the slash. Now that you've been warned, I hope you enjoy and review to your heart's content. Reviews make Wintry's day. Con crits are even better. E-mail me with questions!
Last Station
What could you give me in consolation?
Your broken shadows?
What's left of your heart when all you've got to offer
is the time of day?
---
Chapter ONE
Dear Mother,
Today Madame is taking me to see the fashion district. As you seem ill-disposed to sending me my measurements, I suppose I'll have to be refitted. Pity. They say Paris is first class but I've yet to adjust to their taste in robes. The fabric Madame insisted fit me so well was perfectly hideous. I don't suppose I shall ever trust her judgment again.
The piano lessons are going as planned. As for dance, there is no partner who can match me. Madame was quite pleased, though I feel bored by this arrangement. I don't doubt your decision, Mother, but she is not all that I expected. Her eating habits are awful- I can barely stand to dine with her anymore.
When will you let me come home? I miss the Estate, and I daresay my Quidditch skills aren't going to be what they used to be. Yesterday, at breakfast, I tried to recall the maneuver Polakoff was showing me before I left, only to find that my grip has, again, slipped into the wrong wrist-arm angle. Madame had no sympathy for me. She is quite the cold-hearted old French woman, except when it comes to her shoes. She cares far more about her shoes than she cares about any living wizard. It can't be normal.
Wasn't I educated far better at home? Yes, France is quite a necessary experience, and yes, I like to travel. And I certainly won't go against tradition. But at my age, I would think this sort of schooling is unnecessary. Bon nuit from Paris, Maman. Send my regards to Father. Even if you won't be reading this letter.
All my love,
*
---
"Who're you writing to?"
Lawrence snapped his head up sharply. By instinct, he slid a hand over his parchment to hide it from prying eyes. "No one. It shouldn't matter to you. Leave me alone."
The girl stared at him for a moment, then shrugged and went back to wiping down the tables. The dining car was empty this late at night.
"Sorry I asked," she muttered.
Her hair, tied back to keep it out of her eyes, dangled past her shoulders and swung distractingly as she scrubbed in constant circles. The water swirled across the tabletop and dried from the outside in.
Lawrence sighed, massaged his temples, and turned back to his letter. The ink had smeared, like always. He folded it up anyway and, smoothing the creases out of his envelope, he sealed everything and set the finished letter aside.
"Done?" she asked, knowing better than to look up for an answer.
"No," he snapped irritably. "I'm not going to help you with the tables."
She sniffed. "That's not what I asked you for and you know it. I'm just trying to make some conversation." She finished off a table with a satisfied swipe, surveyed her work, then moved on to the next. "It's always so quiet here."
Lawrence gave a short and decidedly hollow laugh. "This train, quiet? I can-" He reached for his teacup. The train hit a sudden jolt on the tracks and he had barely enough time to curse before he was drenched.
"Bloody-!"
"Keep it down." She walked over and leaned across the table, trying to soak up some of the tea with her table rag. "Do you want the passengers to complain? Then Miles will really come down on you."
"Let him." He pulled out his wand and, pointing it at his shirt, he was dry with a quick spell. Watching him, she worried her lip. "What? Are you going to tell me I'm holding my wand wrong or something?"
"No," she said too quickly. "I'm...getting back to work. If you're done with your letter, well- you should too. Miles will be looking for you out at your post."
Of course he would. Miles was always after him. "Fine. I'm going." He stood up, thrusting the half-empty tea-cup into her free hand. She cradled it there as if it was a holy relic. "And here I was, believing you when you said you wanted conversation."
"But I-" she began, startled, but by then he had pushed open the connecting door and was finished listening anyway.
Train doors are rather different than normal doors. They slide open on a track when one applies a bit of force to them, and they sort of fold in upon themselves, in sections; at least, that was how it worked on his train. They also sprung back at a surprising speed, with a tendency to jam.
He found them annoying at the best of times. Tonight was one of those humid nights, where everything seemed to stick fast to his skin. In the short walking space between two rattling cars, he managed to develop a fine sweat and it only made matters worse.
And then the door jammed.
He almost didn't believe it for a second. He had himself balanced with his feet planted so that the train couldn't shake him too badly, something he had learned within his first day working on the job, but it was an awkward angle for trying to force a door.
Not that he knew how.
He knocked loudly before he could think of anything else to do. Knocked and then began kicking; it was like throwing a tantrum. There was no way in hell he wanted to go back and make conversation with that stupid girl. He was tired of listening, when sometimes he wondered if he ought to be.
Father had always said- but no, that wasn't right. Father wasn't a man he could trust to get answers from anymore. Lawrence felt vaguely immoral giving any sort of credit to Father now; it was like referring to someone in past tense, as if they'd died, while you still spoke with them by day. It'd be like doing him an injustice.
But Father was in any condition to defend himself. They say even a week in Azkaban can rip a sane man's mind to shreds, and Father had been there ever since fifth year.
The last time Lawrence visited Father was what they call 'a good day.' Meaning, they managed to sit him up, and made sure he wasn't shaking too badly, meaning that he wasn't in one of his rages, meaning he could almost call Lawrence by his given name.
'Good day my arse,' he'd told the guard on his way out.
'Mr. Malfoy?'
And then he'd whirled furiously back on the man, reaching for his wand all the while. But there's a reason why men like that are trusted as Azkaban's guards; before anyone else could have properly reacted, the guard had already gotten his wand level with Lawrence's breastbone.
Attacking then would only have been a stupid, hopeless move, so he didn't. But he was still driven far enough out of his head to think that it seemed like a good idea.
'Don't be moving, now. If I Stunned you like this, you'd be lucky if you were out cold for less than a day,' the guard warned in a low voice. Lawrence bared his teeth, seething.
'You- you-'
'Something the matter, Mr. Malfoy?'
'No! Don't call me that! Don't you- don't you dare call me that! My father-'
'Your father,' the man had interrupted, 'is sitting inside in a place where they only let prisoners out to shit, eat, and bathe- if they're good. What exactly do you think he can do to me, out here? Tell me, Mr. Draco Malfoy. What is it you think you can do?'
Whatever it was he'd been trying, whatever the hell he'd believed he could accomplish, he didn't. He'd Disapparated before he let the guard make him a fool. It was only later that he began to realize that, by then, it was probably too late.
Thinking about it wasn't going to change anything. Lawrence leaned his head against the dark glass between his arms and peered inside. Someone was finally coming to get the door for him.
It was difficult to make out the figure; the lamps in the narrow corridor were dimmed at night and generally undependable. With a bit of effort, Lawrence saw the passenger emerge from his compartment, wipe his eyes, and attempt some bleary steps towards the door. He put on a pair of glasses.
It was almost as if Lawrence had put on a pair of his own; he froze, suddenly blinded. He felt his pulse pounding in his temples, and for a second, he was terrified, because he was convinced he could hear it too, like a rush and an answering roar in his ears. It drowned out the sound of the train absolutely.
He fled back to the dining car.
The girl looked up to find him breathing as if he'd run a marathon. "Back again? You look like you've seen a banshee," she exclaimed, brandishing her towel rag towards him with a delighted expression.
'Fuck you,' he growled in his mind.
"No. Not quite," he gasped pleasantly. He moved in on her until she squealed (he pretended to ignore it) and fell back onto a table that was still wet. "Did I ever tell you?" he murmured into her ear. "I can't take my eyes off your hair."
Outside, the passenger stood in the doorway for a long time. He had been so sure that someone had been knocking. So sure.
"Malfoy?" he called, not too loudly. "Malfoy?"
