Hollow Chapter 1: Moving In, a harry potter fanfic
Rated: T - English - Romance/Humor - Draco M. & Harry P. - Reviews: 363 - Updated: 07-31-11 - Published: 06-07-06 - Complete - id:2979751
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Here is my newest offering – I'm almost embarrassed by how invested I am in this already. I truly hope you like it. If you are patient, you'll be rewarded with more H/D and R/Hr than you'll know what to do with. Please review! Nothing could make me happier…
Disclaimer: All of this belongs to the wonderful Ms. J.K. Rowling, whose wonderful sixth book simply fans the flames of Harry/Draco fervor.
Hollow
By Neverbird
Chapter 1
Burning every bridge that I cross
to find some beautiful place to get lost…
-Elliott Smith
Early June
There is a doorknob, around which Harry's fingers curve with trepidation. He hesitates, before twisting it to the right and pressing forward. The door slides slowly open, allowing a shaft of sunlight to creep inside.
"All right, Harry?" Hermione asks, her hand finding his shoulder. Harry nods wordlessly. How to explain what he is feeling? In front of him, through the crack in the door, he sees a dusty room in which he has not set foot for over fifteen years. Sunlight from the outside illuminates a patch of faded floral carpet, drawing his eyes to the spot.
Harry draws a sharp breath and pushes the door open at once, letting Hermione and Ron follow him inside. A dozen different details of the room catch his eye all at once, and he is motionless, overwhelmed. Ron and Hermione linger by the doorway, watching him.
A moment later, his body visibly relaxes. He turns to Ron and Hermione with a vague smile. "Stop giving me that look. I'm fine."
"It's okay if you're not, Harry," Hermione murmurs solemnly.
"I'm fine," Harry repeats. "Merlin, what a bloody mess." He runs his hand along the arm of a chair, crowning his fingertips with circles of dust. "It looks like no one's lived here for years."
"I'd be surprised if anyone had," Hermione replies, feeling along the wall for a light switch. "Given the circumstances... Muggles can be very superstitious." Her hand finds the switch and flicks it, with no consequence. "New lightbulbs," she mutters to herself.
"It's been a decade and a half, though," Harry muses. "You'd think that someone…" He is momentarily distracted by Ron, who has occupied himself with writing his first and last name the thick dust coating the window. "Ron, we're in hiding, mate."
"Huh? Oh – oops," Ron says sheepishly, erasing his handiwork with a crude smear of his palm.
"It's actually in better condition than I expected," says Hermione. "You'd think Voldemort wouldn't have been so… well, I suppose the Ministry would have cleaned things up a bit when they came to erase the neighbors' memories." She smiles wearily. "And talking of cleaning, we should probably get started, if we want this place to be livable for the night."
"Muggle cleaning," Ron groans.
"This won't be as bad as Grimmauld Place," Hermione promises cheerfully. "Should only take us a few days, I expect." She investigates the hall closet for a broom.
Hours pass in a haze of sweeping, wiping, and dusting. Ron, though unenthusiastic at first, soon falls into the rhythm of washing the windows, wiping away the dust in bizarre patterns to amuse himself. The room brightens gradually as he restores each pane of glass to its former transparent glory. It is an uncommonly sunny day for England. Ron is inspired to prop a few of the windows open with dusty books he has found on the floor.
Of all the things Harry had thought he might feel, clearing the dust away from his parents' furniture and possessions, he had not expected to feel peaceful – and yet, between the late afternoon sun, the chirping of birds, and the repetition of scrubbing, every tragedy he's known seems to fall away. This morning, he had woken up at 4 Privet Drive for the very last time. For the moment, he is wholly content to be with his two best friends in this vaguely familiar house, tucked away in the quiet part of Godric's Hollow. Next door, two little girls are mucking about underneath a sprinkler, their delighted squeals periodically drowned out by the whir of a passing car. This town is so thoroughly Muggle that, though Harry knows better, he can't help but feel safe.
There are dead insects in all of the corners, and the task of expunging them falls to Hermione. She sweeps them into her dustbin, and empties them into a plastic rubbish bag. Standing on tiptoe, she uses her broom to knock cobwebs down from the ceiling. She labors to sweep away every leg of every spider, feeling a surge of protectiveness towards Ron. Locks of curly hair escape her ponytail and are caught by the soft breeze from outside, tickling her face. She extricates another spider body from the bristles of her broom, humming old Muggle songs to herself.
Dusk approaches, and Ron's stomach grumbles a plea to be fed. There is a Tesco about five blocks away – an easy walk in this weather. The air has chilled slightly, but it feels refreshing after a day of physical work inside a stuffy house. Hermione reties her ponytail as she walks, mentally cataloguing the household items and cleaning supplies they need.
"Oh, he's still doing fine," Ron is telling Harry. "No, the healers expect he'll act a bit funny for a few days around the full moon, but it's not like he's a full blown – you know. I reckon it's more like he's turned into a woman. A couple days of crazy each month, but ultimately harmless."
"Excuse me?" Hermione demands indignantly. Harry cannot suppress a snort of laughter, and Hermione glares disapprovingly at both of them.
"All except our Hermione, that is," Ron cheerfully disclaims, catching her around the shoulders in a brief, one-armed hug, "Who is perfectly agreeable at all times of every month." Hermione rolls her eyes, but smiles slightly.
They arrive at the Tesco, and Ron is in awe of its grandeur. He has never been in a Muggle grocery store before – in fact, he has never been in a grocery store, period, as food always seemed to simply materialize in his mother's kitchen. The shopping trolley in particular is a source of deep joy; he pushes it just enough to gain momentum, before jumping on at the back and gliding down the aisles. "It's wicked," he decrees, clapping Harry on the back as he passes. "It's like riding a broom with nothing between your legs!"
"Nothing between your legs?" Harry asks wickedly. "Nothing at all?" Hermione snickers.
They roll up to the checkout an hour later, trolley laden with cleaning supplies, light bulbs, and various food items. With the enduring strength of the galleon against the pound, they can afford to be relaxed about their spending; upon discovering this, Ron makes an orgasmic little noise, and adds an armful of Muggle sweets to their load. The walk home is decidedly less comfortable, as the bags seem to become heavier and heavier by the minute. Nevertheless, Ron experiences his first Galaxy bar the moment he steps inside, which is all it takes to cement the fact that Tesco is the Most Bloody Awesome Place Ever Invented.
They continue to work into the night, their motivation waning and frustration compounding. "So. Much. Bloody. Rubbish," Ron mutters, dumping another load into the bin. "For the love of Merlin, this would all take, like, a bloody second if I could use my wand."
"So Voldemort could trace your magic and immediately apparate to our doorstep?" Harry laughs bitterly. "How about you don't."
"Yeah, well…" Ron wipes his hand on his trousers and scowls. "I mean, I thought there was supposed to be some sort of protection here, you know, like, from your mum. Isn't that what Dumbledore had said?"
"Only til my birthday." Harry sighs. "Anyway, we've been over this, remember? The no-magic rule isn't about me – for now, Voldemort can't touch me here. But you and Hermione – I reckon you're fairly high up on his list, you know? And if he were able to find you…"
"I get it." Ron says quietly.
Harry pauses for a beat. "She would have liked you both. My mum, I mean. I wish she could have… she would have wanted to protect you, too." He looks quickly away, seemingly intent on scrubbing a stubborn patch of grunge off a table.
Hermione and Ron exchange an anxious glance. "Harry, we'll be fine," she says firmly. "We're keeping a very low profile, and living like Muggles. He won't be able to find us here."
"I know," Harry says slowly, uncertainly. "But I guess… I mean, you don't think he might catch on? This is, you know, where we lived. My mum and dad and me. And he killed them here."
"But Harry, remember what you know about Voldemort. I don't think he'll look for you here, I really don't, because it would be unfathomable to him that someone would actually choose to give up magic, even temporarily. Particularly someone as important as you – oh, don't give me that look, you know you're important. But really, Harry, try not to worry. I honestly think we'll be fine."
"What she said," Ron concurs.
"You're right," Harry says, "I mean, yeah. You're absolutely right. I'll stop being paranoid now."
"I think it's just been a long day for all of us," Hermione says kindly. "Maybe we should turn in for the night, so we'll be well rested for the big surprise tomorrow morning." She smiles mysteriously.
"Surprise?" Ron asks eagerly. He and Harry regard her with matching expressions of bewildered curiosity.
"I think I'll take the room with the rosebud wallpaper," she declares, ignoring them. "Goodnight, boys." She hugs them both. "Don't forget to turn off the light!" Yawning, she takes her leave.
"Surprise…?" Ron repeats.
In a room lit only by a single dim lantern, Snape purses his lips and regards Draco calmly. "Why yes, I feel as if I can guarantee that it will be excruciatingly painful. Is that going to be a problem?"
"Yes," mutters Draco.
One dark eyebrow quirks.
"What?" Draco snaps. "I'm not a bloody Gryffindor, okay? I don't crave pain." His gray eyes flash resentfully. "But I'm still going to let you do it, so you can calm the fuck down."
"Do I seem remotely agitated?" Snape inquires placidly. Gently, he pushes up Draco's sleeve, and cradles the boy's forearm in his hand. His fingers graze the dark tattoo boldly imprinted in the pale skin beneath Draco's elbow, ending just before his wrist. "It will have to be taken care of immediately, of course."
"Yes, I know," Draco scoffs. "Because two days make that much of a difference, apparently."
"In two days, you'll be of age," Snape replies, "And for the purpose of this procedure, it makes all the difference in the world."
Draco glares into the lantern and doesn't reply.
"You're lucky you're so young, Draco. You're also incredibly lucky you've never killed anyone. It would never work, otherwise." He glances momentarily at his own left sleeve and frowns.
"Yeah…lucky." Draco laughs bitingly. "Can we just… let's just get it over with."
"Fine," says Snape. He mutters a quick cleansing spell, and Draco feels his forearm tingle. Snape then covers the tattoo with a thick layer of brown potion, which quickly gets absorbed into Draco's skin. "This will help with the pain," he explains. "At least, it will make it bearable for you… I believe."
Draco grimaces. "Has anyone ever removed one before?"
"No," Snape says matter-of-factly.
"Oh," says Draco.
Snape brandishes his wand. "Are you ready?" he asks.
Draco bites his lip. "What if I said no?"
"'No' is not an option," Snape sighs. "Draco, right now, the Dark Lord believes you to be dead – but with the Mark, he can track you down more easily than you could possibly imagine. And if he realizes that you are alive, hiding from him, then I can predict with some certainty that your death will be the best of all possible outcomes." He stares gravely at Draco, his solemn face as sallow as ever in the dim light. "You are attempting to lie to the Dark Lord," he continues. "You'd best make it at least somewhat believable."
Draco closes his eyes, feeling suddenly short of air, as if he is breathing through a drinking straw. "Fine, just – just do it quickly." His voice cracks. "Please."
A shock of pain. Continuous, exquisite, pulsing, throbbing pain. Whatever potion Snape put on his arm, it must not be working, it can't be working, because the pain is like nothing Draco has ever experienced. His eyes clench shut.
Perhaps this is what it feels like for women to give birth, though in his case, something is being born out of every pore in his forearm rather than his vagina. Draco does not have a vagina. He must not cry out. He knows that most people could not endure this degree of pain without whimpering like pathetic Muggle infants, and he wants so desperately to be better than that. He is better than that. But of course Harry Fucking Potter never bursts in when Draco is being manly and stoic – oh no. Potter drops in just in time to witness him sobbing, crying to Myrtle- and that look he gave Draco when he caught his eye in the mirror. That bloody look, the expression on his face -
Draco forces his eyes to open – he would rather witness every detail of this barbaric procedure than revisit the shame of being looked at by Potter. Snape's wand hovers above his forearm, making tiny back and forth movements, and periodically arcing upwards. Draco is reminded of a time a few years earlier, watching Madame Malkin re-stitch the sleeves of a pair of robes that had previously overwhelmed his short arms. Except, on that occasion, it didn't feel like an entire lost civilization was being excavated from his left arm. Nor does he expect to walk away this time with a sweet new pair of dress robes. In fact, he'll be pleasantly surprised if he walks away with his arm intact.
It is interesting to observe Snape's face as he works, calm but intently focused. As always, he projects and air of unruffled competence, for which Draco knows he will be grateful sometime in the near future. At the moment, however, Draco cannot help but indulge in a soothing fantasy, wherein his arm wrenches itself free from Snape's grasp – on its own volition, of course, certainly out of Draco's control- his hand curling tightly into a fist and landing one sublimely devastating punch on Snape's hooked nose.
Finally, abruptly, Snape lowers his wand, and the pain stops. For a moment, Draco is rendered speechless and motionless by the sheer intensity of his relief. Snape's wandless hand continues to clutch Draco's arm tightly. "Lumos," he grunts, breathing heavily.
Draco's heart accelerates wildly as his arm is poked, prodded, and thoroughly examined by Snape's sharp black eyes. What if it didn't work – or worse, what if the procedure must be repeated? Draco doesn't think he could bear it. There are limits to his courage. After what seems like a century of deliberation, Snape exhales audibly and releases his arm. "I believe we have been successful," he murmurs.
"Let me see," demands Draco, his voice jumping like a second year Hufflepuff. He jerks his forearm in front of his face, and scrutinizes it with amazement. Except for a bit of redness and tenderness, already beginning to fade, there is no sign of the Mark ever having existed. The vague, restless panic that had shadowed him all year suddenly dissipates; instead, he is filled with a deep, warming joy, and a rush of relief, poignant to the point of near intoxication. He is startled to realize he is blinking back tears.
At first he had been proud to display the Dark Mark, he remembers. After all, it was the symbol of his membership to a group that would lend him power, and that acknowledged him as worthy of that power by virtue of the family into which he had been born. His inclusion in the elite circle of Death Eaters at such a young age had been unprecedented – his ego had swelled outrageously. Vince and Greg had basically been in awe of him, even more so than usual. Better yet, word from Azkaban had reached him of his father's resounding approval.
And even among this chosen few, Draco had stood out as special, uniquely talented and capable. The Dark Lord had recognized this, and had honored him with an assignment of staggering importance. This is what Draco had once believed. Of course, it had quickly become obvious that it was his expendability, as opposed to his aptitude, that had inspired Voldemort to select him for this particular task – and yet he was bound to complete it anyway. If he tried and failed, he would surely die, but if he didn't try, his parents would be killed as punishment. So he had done what any self-respecting Slytherin would have – he committed himself to succeeding, however long the odds.
Thus, it had been a relentlessly miserable year. The demands placed upon him were beyond the comprehension of any of his friends, absorbed as they were in impressing each other, snogging, and very occasionally studying. For the first time in his life, Draco felt thoroughly and utterly isolated from all of them. Every morning, he woke up wishing he was someone else, anyone whose life was uncomplicated by the Dark Mark and all associated responsibilities. More than once, disturbingly enough, he had found himself envying the blithe simplicity of his Hufflepuff year-mates, who seemed to have nothing more pressing to worry about than being too stupid to pass their classes.
For Draco, nothing had been simple. Plans that had seemed brilliant and even glamorous in theory were painfully messy in execution. He had walked around in a daze for a week after the incident with that Bell girl. Surely, he wasn't supposed to care whether she died or not, and yet his relief at her survival had been alarmingly powerful. And despite the fact that he loathed every nasty freckle on Ron Weasley's homely face, he had never intended him as a target. Thank Merlin that no one had been with him when he overheard the news that the Weasel had been poisoned. Draco had been forced to proceed immediately to the sixth floor bathroom, where he had violently released the contents of his stomach, and spent the remainder of the afternoon sobbing and dripping snot into the crook of his own elbow.
"Is everything…okay?" Snape asks, achieving consummate awkwardness with a stiff pat of Draco's shoulder.
"Yes. Thank you," Draco mutters, mortified. Fuck. He never used to cry before sixth year. Okay, that's a blatant lie – he's always had a certain degree of what his mother tactfully referred to as "pureblood sensitivity". Still, he had never been one to break down in front of people outside the family, and even then, his episodes were brief and dignified. And he would never have thought that he was capable of crying out of happiness or relief, but now it doesn't seem to matter what emotion he is experiencing, so long as it is strong. Fuck it all, no wonder Moaning Bloody Myrtle thinks they're soul mates.
"So," Draco, with effort, manages to compose himself, "I'm officially no longer a Death Eater. And I'm safe, right? He can't find me anymore?"
"You are safe for the moment," Snape replies. He seems very relieved that there are no more tears to which he must attend. "The next step, of course, is to place you in hiding. I have a location in mind, actually – the last place he'd ever expect."
"And where is that?" Draco asks, genuinely curious.
Snape sighs. "Before I tell you, I must ask – have you given any consideration to where you stand with regards to your personal politics?"
"My politics?"
"Your political beliefs, I should say. Specifically, your opinions regarding the appropriate social status of Muggle borns and half bloods."
Draco frowns. "Is this a trick question?"
"No. It is an incredibly important question. I'd prefer for you to answer honestly."
"Honestly?" says Draco. "My opinions can be whatever you need them to be. Though I'd really like to know where you think you're sending me, if this is so bloody important."
"Well, I'll tell you up front, you're not going to like it," Snape warns.
"Yeah," mutters Draco, his eyes narrowing. "That much I'd figured."
The doorbell rings early the next morning, just as Ron, Harry, and Hermione are sitting down for breakfast.
"The surprise!" yelps Ron, launching out of his seat and skidding towards the door. Harry is at his heels. Hermione, who has stoically endured a barrage of questions from the moment they woke up, calmly takes a bite of her cereal.
Ron opens the door with great flourish, grinning expectantly. He is greeted by a familiar figure dressed very inexpertly as a Muggle, in a suit and an odd, tight cap. "Good morning, Ron," he greets cheerfully.
Ron's face falls. "Oh," he says. "Hi Dad." He glances sidelong at Hermione, who has joined them at the door. "What a thrilling surprise," he mutters, raising his eyebrows and looking disgruntled.
Hermione raises her eyebrows right back at him, before turning her attention to their visitor. "Hi, Mr. Weasley! Glad you could make it." Ron's eyes narrow suspiciously as she and his dad exchange fleeting, mischievous grins.
"Hello Hermione, Harry. It's wonderful to see you again."
"Good morning, Mr. Weasley," Harry replies politely. "I like your doo rag."
"Can we get you something to eat or drink?" Hermione offers.
Mr. Weasley chuckles and pats his belly. "No, I'm quite fine, thank you. I've already had the satisfaction of a customary Molly Weasley breakfast feast this morning. Which reminds me…" He flicks his wand quickly and produces a large, covered plate, which he hands to Ron. "She's a bit worried that you three will go hungry."
Ron peeks under the foil and groans with pleasure. "Do me a favor, Dad, and tell her we're starving to death."
"We'll see," Mr. Weasley replies. "Should we relocate to the kitchen?" Soon, Harry, Ron, and Hermione have happily forsaken their cold cereal, in favor of eggs, bacon, sausage, and toast with homemade marmalade.
"So what's the latest at home?" asks Ron, who seems much more at peace with his surprise now that bacon is involved.
Mr. Weasley sighs. "It's the usual wedding drama. This time it's Mundungus."
"Mundungus Fletcher?" asks Hermione.
"That's the one," Mr. Weasley replies. "He's out of Azkaban, received a full pardon, and now Bill's insisting on inviting him to the wedding-,"
"So? That's brilliant!" Ron interjects.
"Yes, well, your mum's going spare, as you might imagine. Doesn't want him in the house- thinks he'll steal all the silver."
"I wouldn't put it past him," Harry mutters resentfully.
"Well, I'd hope he would be on his best behavior, given that half the Ministry will be there, but it's hard to say…" He trails off, glancing distractedly in the direction of the door. "Hermione, can I trouble you for the time?"
"It's about half past ten." She smiles.
"Excellent," Mr. Weasley replies, nodding eagerly. Harry and Ron exchange a curious glance.
"Well. If you kids will help me clear the table, I'd be happy to scourgify – oh! Is that a dishwasher?
Hermione nods. "I can show you how to use it, if you'd like. The doorbell rings. "Oh, would you two mind getting that?" she asks innocently.
"Sure…," Harry replies, glancing warily at Ron, who merely shrugs. The doorbell rings again, and is followed by several sharp knocks. Harry opens the door.
A stocky Muggle man stands on their doorstep, wearing a tool belt and a name badge proclaiming him to be "Steven". He cracks his knuckles noisily. "Are you Arthur Weasel?"
"He's Arthur Weasley," Ron gestures over his shoulder to his dad. "Who are you?"
"I'm Steve from Telecom," he replies, offering his hand to shake. "I'm here to install your high speed internet."
Hermione and Mr. Weasley lean against the counter, beaming.