Last year it was The Official Unwritten Slash Month, this year it's the Official Challenge Month. The similarities? A month of fics by one author. The difference? This time, YOU are in control.
Each fic will be written based on a challenge. This can be any type of challenge, from a single word to a full-blown challenge. The rules are simple, they must be Harry Potter and they must be slash. So get involved, get reviewing and together we'll make November the Challenge Month.
(Challenges can be submitted via Reviews, or, preferably, emails until the Fanfiction messages service starts to work. If your submission is anonymous, please leave an email address so I can contact you if I chose to write your fic, this address will also be kept private.)
Challenge: Futile, from annonymous.
Futile
It was futile, really, him to love Harry. Harry would never look at him in anything but derision, anger and hatred. Harry would never see the pain and love beneath his facade, and Harry would never, ever accept him as lover. It was futile to love him, futile to care for him, futile to want him for his own.
Despite the futility of his affections, despite the constant pain they brought, he couldn't help it sometimes. Couldn't help quiet dreams of love and happiness. An actual relationship, like the one he'd had with the Weaslette all those months. Holding hands in the corridoor, so all those around knew that he was Harry's. Kisses over breakfast, sex in the shower, Hogsmeade, sly glances in the classroom. The chance for them to build a future together.
When Dumbledore had offered him his support and help, when Draco had broken from his parents, his house and his "Lord", he'd hoped. Another futile excersie, hope. He'd hoped, when he'd moved into their Dorms, spent hours, days, trying to win their forgiveness, that he'd be able to create something with Harry. It became painfully obvious, however, that he'd win neither forgiveness nor affection.
Ironic, then, that as he stood here facing the most futile exercise of all, fighting the dark Lord and keeping Harry and the Wizarding World safe, that he would be feeling the least hopeless. Weaslette was crying, Granger was buried against Weasel, both stoically trying to prevent tears, but show how much they loved one another anyway, in case one or both died. Potter... Potter was pale. Potter was stoic. Potter knew, beyond all of them, that death wanted him this night.
He'd bit his lip in hesitation and nervousness. Potter didn't deserve to be messed up, not right before The Battle, the important one. The final one, everyone felt that much. But, as Weasel and Granger were trying to show, he couldn't face death without first having faced love. So, with a deep breath and shaking hands, he did what felt like the most brave and futile things he'd ever done in his life - he kissed Harry Potter.
The sky didn't fall in, angels didn't sing. He wasn't suddenly transported to Heaven. It was clumsy, a press of lips against lips, a desperate plea for the other to return it. And then he did. A half measure of desperation, no little anger and hatred and an exquisite amount of pleasure as his spread Draco's liips and flickered his tongue into his mouth, drawing the kiss out for several moments before breaking away.
The sound of an explosion outside cut off any words either could have said, and broke the dark silence in the room. Harry looked around, flushed rather than pale, eyes gleaming with passion rather than empty and dark. He met each eye carefully before he caught Draco's again. He held the look for a space of several heartbeats before kissing him again, quickly, tongue tracing his lips in a promise for more. "Ready?" Harry asked them all, asked Draco. They didn't answer, didn't need to. This was a futile exercise, really. But with Harry's hand warm in his own, with Harry's determination fired through them all, they would make it. They had to. Futile? Nothing was futile, nor impossible.
A/N: Not mine, don't own.
