Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.
A/N: This is written for the newyearcntdown challenge on LJ. The prompt used in this part is winter fairy tale.
The Station Master of Winter's Court
Part II: 1995
In the vast expanse filled with nothing but ice and snow, not a single living creature could be seen. Blue twilight painted the snow a lovely shade of cornflower blue, and the snow glittered like a sea of stardust. In the distance, a thicket of evergreen trees lurked like giants clad in white camouflage. At the outdoor railway station, the gas lamps at both ends of the platform were lit, their golden flame burning steadily behind the glass, and their lights casting faint halos upon the ground.
Propping one leg up on the bench, Harry hugged his knee and watched his breath escape into the blue hour sky. The cold air nipped at his nose, and a slight chill seeped through his trousers. The winter coat Sirius bought for him was warm enough to give him some comfort. Pulling his scarf over his mouth and nose, he rested his chin on his knee and waited for the train to arrive.
With his trunk by his side, he was struck by a sense of déjà vu. Nothing much had changed in this forlorn railway station at the edge of the world, and he doubted it would change at the end of time. Beneath the distant twilight and the intimate gaslight, the scenery spread out before his eyes was at once lonely and beautiful and surreal.
Five years ago, he stumbled into a fairy tale and met a man who claimed to be a magician. Like Cinderella's glass slipper, the blood red cloak and the fluffy white mittens he had stowed away were proof that the encounter was neither a dream nor an illusion conjured from the mind of a frightened child. Perhaps someday he would recount the story to his children and grandchildren, and they might or might not believe him. What he did not expect was to be stranded at this very station again.
"Back so soon?" came a low baritone drawl.
His heart skipped a beat, Harry lowered his leg and turned towards the sound. Standing several paces away from the bench was the man he had met five years ago. Dressed in black, the man was as Harry had remembered: the look of amusement upon a chiselled visage, the black coat complementing a tall frame, long legs wrapped in black trousers, and black leather boots stepping on trampled snow.
His pulse quickening in spite of himself, Harry pulled down his scarf and shifted his gaze ever so slightly to the left of the man's head. Silvery blond hair swayed ever so slightly in the wintry breeze, but the man did not seem to mind the wind or the cold. "I didn't think I would run into you at this station again," Harry said.
"I am what you might call a station master." There was a note of humour in the man's voice.
Harry blinked. The notion had not occurred to him before, though perhaps he should have thought of the possibility. "You aren't wearing a cap, and..." He cast a glance at the tailored coat—a study in elegance—and the stylish boots—made with real leather, he reckoned. "You don't look like a station master."
"And what do you presume a station master ought to look like?" the man asked, and Harry had no answer to give him. Unconcerned, the man continued. "No one pesters me about how I look or what I wear. People who end up here usually have other things to worry about."
"Oh. Right." Did travellers often become stranded at this station, Harry wondered as his gaze swept across the snowy field and the deep blue sky. It was also likely that the man was merely messing with his head. "I'm Harry, by the way."
"Nice to meet you, Harry-by-the-way," the man said in half-jest. "You can call me Draco."
"Like the constellation?"
"You could say that." Draco came over and sat down on the bench, his movement exuding the natural grace of someone comfortable in his own skin. A mixture of envy and admiration trickled into Harry's mind; he could never move with such easy confidence. "How's life?"
Scenes from the past flashed by inside Harry's head like images from a magic lantern: scolded for having messy hair, shunned for being an orphan and having a scar on his forehead, made fun of for wearing hand-me-downs that never fit, locked away in a dark cupboard for some presumed slight. That was all in the past. Now he had friends at the boarding school, and he had Sirius and Remus, who gave him a home, as well as anything else he needed and some more.
"I'm better now." Words tumbled out of Harry's mouth of their own accord, words he had wanted to say to this mysterious stranger for the longest time. "It's not always easy, but it's not all bad either. My friend at school invited me to stay at his house for a few days. It should be fun." Besides, Bill will be there too, he added before he caught himself. "How are you?"
With a knowing look Draco made a humming sound and tilted his head to regard Harry, his blond strands falling over one keen grey eye. His cheeks coloured, Harry forced himself to meet Draco's gaze. Silly though it might sound, he thought for a moment that Draco could hear the words that were left unsaid—and what he had heard amused him.
At length, Draco looked away and let out a long breath. White steam flowed out of his lips and took on the form of a miniature dragon. As if following the guidance of the wind, the ghostly dragon sailed with the wintry breeze towards the darker end of the dusky sky. Harry did not gawk, but like a child seeing shiny baubles, he could not resist chasing the wisp of steam with his eyes until it vanished into the ether.
"I'm working," Draco said in a casual tone.
Remembering the thread of the conversation, Harry tore his gaze away from the sky to look at Draco, whose nonchalant expression revealed nothing of his thought. "Er, okay. Are you the only station master here?" Draco nodded. "Isn't it lonely being out here by yourself?"
A wry half-smile flitted onto Draco's shapely lips. "People come and go all the time," he said.
That was hardly an answer, but Harry let it go. The question was too personal, and it was rude of him to pry. Leaning back on the bench, he looked up at the twilit sky, wondering if it was dusk or dawn. He checked his wrist-watch: time was frozen at twenty-six minutes and thirteen seconds past six o'clock.
An unsettling feeling began to creep up on him like a tiny lizard crawling up his spine. When did he arrive at this station? When did he board a train? When did he leave his dormitory and head to the station? He could remember nothing at all. Unnerved, he went through his pocket and found a railway ticket, but the find did not put his mind at ease. There was an inexplicable gap in his memory. Just like last time.
"Say, Draco, what is this place?" Harry asked, his voice sounding steady and calm, even though he was feeling anything but calm. "Is this wonderland? The land of the faeries? The railway station of Jack Frost?"
"It's Winter's Court, actually," Draco murmured. Those frozen grey eyes of his were fixed upon Harry's face, searching for what Harry could not even begin to tell. "Are you afraid?"
The frigid air burnt Harry's throat; a shudder coursed through his body; and a churning sensation persisted in his abdomen. He felt sick. For one disconcerting moment, he was once more the frightened ten-year-old boy who was putting on a brave front that fooled no one. "A little." His words came out in a cloud of white mist.
A low chuckle escaped Draco's lips, and the tension in the air ebbed away as if it were never there to begin with. "That's normal. Just think of everything here as a particularly vivid dream."
The cold snap passed on without a trace, and Harry could breathe easily again. Sending Draco a sidelong glance, he mumbled, "And you are supposed to be the man of my dream?"
The man in question smiled a playful smile at him, and begrudging though he might be, Harry had to admit it was a very attractive smile. "If you want me to be," Draco said mildly.
At once annoyed with Draco and with himself, Harry turned away from Draco and stared at the distant boundary where the fallen snow met the cornflower sky. Draco was lying about this place being a dream, Harry was sure of it, though for whose sake he had not the slightest idea.
Silence lengthened. When his agitation had subsided into a mere whisper, Harry stole a glance at Draco. That the man was good-looking he did not doubt, but something about Draco stirred in him a dull ache, an ache that had nothing to do with attraction or infatuation—nostalgia perhaps, or something else entirely.
Smoke and steam rolled into the station unbidden and cast a veil over the platform. Woken from his musing, Harry looked around to see what was going on. Like a silent ghost a steam train had glided into the station. A door slid open of its own accord, as if beckoning to Harry to climb aboard. It was the same train as the one from five years ago, though the conductor chose to make himself scarce this time.
"This is your train," Draco said.
Harry made a sound in acknowledgement, stood up, and hesitated. For all he knew, this could be the last time he would see Draco again. Shuffling his feet, he avoided Draco's knowing gaze. "I guess this is goodbye."
"Have fun at your friend's house. Also..." Draco got to his feet, withdrew his right hand from his pocket, and held out his fist to Harry. "Hold out your hand."
His curiosity perked, Harry held out his hand. Small blue flowers fell from Draco's gloved hand and into Harry's palm. Taken by surprise, Harry tried to catch them all. One of the flowers eluded his capture, fluttered to the ground, and melded with the snow, blue-tinted petals fading to white.
"Souvenir," Draco remarked as he met Harry's questioning look. A ghost of a smile appeared for a beat or two upon his lips. "I'm always here. Come back when you are ready."
Feeling a pang in his chest, Harry gazed at Draco, whose smile held too many hidden meanings, and whose eyes reflected nothing but the sky in their depths. It was impossible to tell if the man was teasing him again or being serious. Suspicious character notwithstanding, Harry could not help gravitating towards this self-proclaimed station master and magician.
After pocketing the flowers, Harry smiled a bashful smile at Draco. "All right. I'll see you later."
The wheels of his trunk were stuck in the snow, but Harry managed to pick up his trunk and carry it onto the train. Once Draco closed the door for him and moved away, the train began rolling forward in a slow crawl. Leaning against the window in one of the compartments, Harry waved at Draco, who waved back. As the train gathered speed, the station where Draco remained behind slipped out of sight, and the flicker of gaslight melted into the endless twilight.
Alone with only his thoughts to keep him company, Harry sat down and looked out at the world of blue beyond the wooden-framed window. Nothing could be heard save for the slight ringing in his ears. It was like being alone at the bottom of the sea. As a shadow of unease lingered in his mind, he reached into his pocket and took out one of the flowers Draco gave him. The man who called himself Draco was fickle as the wind, slippery as ice and inscrutable as the fog—Harry wondered if they would meet again.
Tires squeaked, and a horn blared like a siren. Looking away from the blue flower, Harry found himself beholding the slope of an empty street bathed in the orange glare of sodium-vapour streetlight. His mind barely registering what had happened, he surveyed his surroundings: the bus stop pole up ahead, the glass shelter shielding him from the elements, the bench he was sitting on, and the trunk by his side. He checked his wrist-watch: twenty-six minutes and fifty-two seconds past six o'clock and counting. He had returned to his world.
There was a touch of frost in the air, but it was nothing compared to Winter's Court. If fairy tales were real, perhaps this world that was his reality was nothing but a dream. He looked up at the dusky sky: the same shade of blue as the sky on the other side, and the same shade of blue as the flower in his hand. Smiling to himself, he put the blue flower in his pocket and waited for the bus to arrive.
To be continued...
