Ginzai
Here comes the sun,
Here comes the sun,
And I say, it's all right
Little darlin' it's been a long cold lonely winter,
Little darlin' it feels like years since it's been here,
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun,
And I say it's all right.
-"Here comes the Sun", George Harrison
Forgiveness would be a long time coming, if it ever did.
Potter was watching him again.
Draco ignored this as it was a common enough affair, and continued to watch the falling sheets of rain hitting the Quidditch green far below. Funny, how different it all seemed, now that he'd returned to Hogwarts. Three years really shouldn't make that much of a difference, and yet, the walls felt more suffocating than comforting, enclosing in on him like a coffin's pine walls, and the arches felt smaller, the thrill of escape after hours lost. It was no longer the refuge it once was, and that innocence gone made the darkness almost unbearable.
There were children out on the field, zooming specks of gold and blue, toiling even in the rain to bring victory. He'd heard that Ravenclaw had become the team to beat, after he and Potter had graduated. Slytherin was nearly depleted, and those students who remained had too much to consider to waste time on frivolities such as Quidditch. Gryffindor had sunk to a ten year low, not at all surprising really. Draco had always known that Potter had been that team's motivation, their drive to victory. Without him, they were nothing.
Funny, how some things didn't change with three years.
Funny, how they did.
Potter was making odd tutting noises now, squirming in his seat like a boy of three and not a man of twenty. Draco finally deemed to look at him, glancing sideways out of his lashes, not even bothering to turn his head. Potter looked strained, as he always seemed to when looking at Draco. His hair was too long again, which had the duel effect of forcing the unruliness out of it, by sheer weight if nothing else, and also of framing his face in a way that was almost pretty. It wasn't a word that Draco would often use to describe another, male or female, but there was something about the way Potter was currently looking at him, his eyes soft and almost fearful, as though he thought Draco would break if he breathed on him too hard, like Draco was made of spun glass, and the hair and the eyes combined with the oversized jumper that he wore all conspired to make him look young, and pale, and all together pretty.
Draco looked away again. Potter's worried face made him ill.
"So," Potter said, and at least his tone didn't match his looks, "You need to eat. Something." Potter made a half hearted gesture to the tray beside him, pointing to a bowl of split pea soup which had long gone cold. Draco detested split pea soup. He didn't say anything to Potter regarding the subject. Outside, one of the blue dots whirled away from the others, falling up and then down, easily evading a gold attempt to dislodge their flight. The blue dot rose again, a tiny golden glint coming from one distance blurred hand.
Potter had stopped, looking downward at the tray and frowning.
"I hate pea soup," he confided in Draco. Draco glanced back at him and raised an eyebrow, before looking away again.
"I mean it," Potter continued, warming to the subject and emboldened by that brief meeting of eyes. "It's just squishy and bland, and my aunt loved it. Still does, I guess. I'm glad I don't have to eat her cooking any more. She always burned the bottom of the pan and I'd have to spend hours scrubbing it to get the gunk off, and all the while there was this horrible stench. So, if you want to eat something else, I'll get it for you."
Draco didn't reply. This was not an unusual occurrence. It didn't take long for Potter to crack under the silence.
"I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry."
Draco looked back at Potter and gave him a cool stare. Potter looked halfway anguished by this point.
"I didn't know," he went on, "I mean, I thought... I... Shit. I didn't know, and I messed up and I'm sorry." He took a step closer to Draco, who continued to look up at him, grey eyes narrowed. Potter half raised a hand, reaching towards Draco, as though he meant to brush his fingers against Draco's cheek, even though they were too far to touch. A moment passed, and when nothing else was said, Potter let his hand fall and turned to leave.
Draco waited an additional moment, to let the tension build.
"I thought of you," Draco said, watching as Potter's back stiffened, though he did not turn.
"When they were carving my flesh, I mean." He could feel his eyes going distant. "So many names. Like they were trying to remember who they'd killed by listing them all, and they ran out of parchment. They let them heal naturally. I've still got the scars, but you knew that. I thought of you while they did it."
"Draco-" But Draco didn't give him the chance to cut in.
"Later, when they grew tired of that, I thought of you again. There are a lot of dark spells that can be practiced on people, you know, and lots of Muggle techniques that I hadn't even heard of. More than I would have guessed and I grew up under Lucius. I wondered if you thought you were saving your precious friend from the very same fate. I wondered if you knew he was one of the ones who had done it."
"Draco-" And Draco thought he heard tears in that voice. The sound gladdened him, distracting him from the sighe of 'Willow Morgan' which he could see in pale silver-pink script on the underside of his right wrist. There were more scars than just those names, but Draco didn't particularly want to remember them. The price that a captured spy must pay is a high one.
"I think I loved you, when I first saw you at the door. I thought that this proved that I'd thrown my lot in with the right folk after all, if you would actually send someone to rescue me. I didn't think you would suceede, but just knowing that the Order had tried was enough."
And he had, he could remember it. He could remember that sensation of relief, utter and complete, knowing, simply knowing, that the nightmare had ended. That the pain would end, be it by death or salvation. He hadn't cared which, at that point. It was a feeling of succor that he honestly couldn't remember having felt before.
Draco could almost see the cell walls, dark and windowless, all smooth blank stone. He could almost feel the chill of them against bare arms, and how they felt when he had thrashed against them, locked in the thralls of agony. He could remember that door opening to allow more tormentors, knowing that they wanted his confession and that their promises of forgiveness were false. Worse things happened to those who confessed. Draco knew that much, and so he kept his silence. He screamed at the points when a scream would relieve the pain, else satisfy his torturer, and he wailed when that was what they desired, and he falsely professed over and over his loyalty to the Dark Lord.
It hadn't helped, in the end. The torture hadn't stopped, even though he bore through pain and torment and agony, even the insidious grip of Veritiserum, which Snape had long ago told him the secret of eluding. He hadn't known how much more of it he could take. Truth to tell, he had thought he was at the end of his strength when the door had opened that time, and dark hair and green eyes met his own. Harry Potter had stood there, gaping in at him.
He could hardly believe it at the time, and with good reason. It didn't make any sense for Dumbledore to risk his beloved and needed poster child, his figurehead for the frightened people. Not in such a useless manner. Harry had been surprised to see him as well, his eyes widening, for once not lost behind glasses, the scar on his forehead muted and nearly lost against the dark of his hair. If they had been out anywhere that had decent light, Draco didn't think he would have been able to see it at all. He must have been in disguise, but it was a crap one. Typical Gryffindor scheme, to think that the Death Eaters would be fooled by a slight glamour and an optical spell.
He'd thought that later, though. At the time, there was no thought, merely that wonderful, almost painful sensation of relief. It had felt like blood rushing into a limb gone numb, prickling and smarting, but the pain was of a wholesome sort and he welcomed it.
/He came, he came, he came/
He came, and that was all that mattered. The words sang in Draco's very blood. Freedom, at last. He'd made it. It was over. He was just moving to gather shaky legs beneath him; despite being bloody and worn out and exhausted, he was still a Malfoy and a Malfoy was nothing without his pride. He would walk out; he wouldn't need a damn Mollicorpus spell or the indignity of being carried.
That's when Potter's face had changed, a disgusted look coming over his features.
"God, Malfoy," He'd said, and his voice had been snide, "Didn't lick Voldemort's boots properly this morning?"
Draco had been speechless. Potter's eyes contained nothing but loathing, now that the shock had faded, and even as Draco watched, Potter stepped back, letting the door fall shut behind him. Darkness fell, thicker than ever, and Draco heard the lock click. Footsteps moved down the hall, fading from hearing.
When the door had opened again, it was Avery leering at him. The next time it had been Crabbe Sr, who blamed Draco for the defection and death of his son. Then it had been the woman LeStrange. After that, Draco couldn't remember. Too many faces. Too many names written into his skin. Hermione Granger was written over the top of his left hand, the 'H' slanted oddly because it had caught against his tendon when Bellicose had penned it, causing the knife to slide and slice through the second 'n' of Susan Bone, which had sprawled over his wrist and up towards his fingers.
He stared at that name now, tracing the fingers of his right hand over it. He didn't touch Granger's name.
"I thought of you all the time." Draco added, fingers still moving slowly and languidly over the scar. "Even after Black came and it was over, I thought of you."
Potter's shoulders slumped. They were shaking, Draco realized, and a hot wave of pleasure shot through him at the sight. Was Potter crying? Good. As far as Draco was concerned, Potter couldn't shed enough tears in ten lifetimes to make up for what he did, but he could damn well try.
"I didn't know," Potter repeated. It was a tired excuse, one that he'd used often after Draco had been returned to both Hogwarts and his senses. "Draco... I'm sorry. I really... I am. I wasn't there for you. I wasn't expecting you."
Draco laughed, a cold bitter sound even to his own ears.
"God, Potter," he said, "Even I figured out in our sixth year that the werewolf wasn't to be trusted. He's a dark creature, and Voldemort called them all to him."
Potter looked over his shoulder at Draco, and, as he'd suspected, those green eyes were full and the cheeks tear stained. "You didn't know Lupin before. He would never, ever harm someone. He hated that side of himself."
Draco was unsympathetic. "And now he's chained to it."
"If I had gotten there sooner-" Potter began, but once more Draco cut him off.
"If you had 'gotten there sooner'" The words were repeated in a falsetto, "then all you would have seen is a man broken and reformed in the dark fire. Trust me, Potter, the Death Eaters can be very convincing, when they want you to believe in something."
Draco pulled at the collar of his robes. He kneaded the skin over the long line of bone there, feeling the raised lines that spelled out 'Forge and Gred' repeatedly. The script was neat and small, just has it had been back in third year, when their corrected DADA essays had been returned. He saw Harry looking at them as well, saw the pained look in his eyes, and he knew he didn't have to say a thing to get his point across.
"I wish I knew how to make it better," Potter said quietly, hands cupping opposite elbows. "I wish I could just go back in time, and do it all over, knowing what I do now."
Draco didn't respond. He looked out the window again; the Quidditch fields were empty now, even the lingering crowds who usually stayed to gossip after games had been driven back inside by the violent weather. "You really should eat," Potter said, and his voice sounded plaintative. "You haven't fully recovered yet. You need your strength."
Draco didn't respond. Potter sighed, and moved back towards the abandoned bowl. He sat down in the chair, still watching Draco.
This time, when Draco looked out of the glass, he looked back at the reflection. Potter was staring at him, eyes hurt and pained. The bowl lay unnoticed by Potter's right elbow, as Draco knew it would remain until the silence grew too loud again and Potter felt once more the need to play mother hen. Until then, he remained pale and wan, and Draco wondered what would hurt him most. He wondered what words he could say, to dig in deepest, which wounds he could create on Potter's subconscious. It was all too easy, he thought, to harm one who wants to be hurt.
And for that, he wouldn't say a thing. Hurting Potter, granting him the illusion that the dam had broken and Draco had begun to 'heal' and through that, had given Potter his tacit forgiveness was more than Draco was prepared to grant. He kept his silence, knowing that it wounded Potter more than his words ever could, because it made the hate more apparent in grey eyes and those few times when Draco did choose to speak.
He flicked his gaze from the Potter in the glass and looked back out into the rain. It splattered against the window pane, and he leaned a hot cheek against it, relishing in the cold against his face. Across the room, Potter continued to wait, nervous and stumbling, and Draco closed his eyes to block him out.
Forgiveness would indeed a long time coming.
Finis.
Huh. A Harry and Draco work that isn't slash. I'm amazed. I'm bewildered.
...
I'm debating writing a slashy sequel.
But not right now. I've got some other things up my sleeves at the moment, including but not limited to a second part of the T/D series, as well as (eventually!) MoPO3. To top that off, I've joined the NaNoWrMo contest, and my hands are rather full with that and will remain so until the contest's end on November 30.
Thanks to everyone who reviewed that I didn't get a chance to respond to. You guys are lovely, and I really do appreciate it. This ficlet might have a follow up, told from Harry's side of things and hopefully explaining some of the fuzzier details. I do hope that you liked the fic. If you did, please drop me a line and let me know. Reviews are lovely, lovely things and I *heart* them muchly.
Ginzai
06-11-02