Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. I just borrow them from J.K. Rowling.
Warning: This is SLASH. Mild, but still slash.
A/N: Thanks and hugs to Plumeria, my lovely, patient beta.
Title: WHISPER
Author: Penguin
"In this land, said the god; 'who seeks shall find;
Who sits with folded hands or sleeps is blind.' "
Harry's voice carried easily all the way up to where Draco sat on the seat that was chiselled out of the sun-baked red rock, watching lizards dart into cracks and crevices. The sun was relentless, the sky an unbelievable blue, cypresses like dark exclamation marks on the hillside where the breeze combed gentle fingers through olive leaves, exposing their silvery undersides.
Harry came climbing up, a film of sweat glistening on his tanned face.
"Did you enhance your voice magically?" asked Draco complacently and took a long draught from his water bottle.
"No." Harry sank down on the seat next to him, taking the water bottle from him. "This place has a built-in Sonorus charm. Amphitheatres do."
Draco turned his head and looked curiously at the dark face next to him, but Harry's eyes were lost in the blue haze over the sea and gave nothing away.
"I thought these places were built by Muggles?" he asked.
"Yes," said Harry absently. "And no."
Draco groaned and slumped back against the red rock.
"You get more and more like Dumbledore every day."
Harry turned and grinned, the sun glittering in his eyes.
"I take that as a compliment," he said.
Draco's face was unreadable, eyes hidden behind sunglasses.
"But what I meant was," Harry continued, pulling at a dried rush of some unnamed, fragrant herb that grew in a crack, "that yes, these people were Muggles, but some Muggle techniques, especially in ancient times, when there were none of the refined, sophisticated instruments that we have access to today, are so clever you could say they are close to magic."
Draco was interested now, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.
"Yes?"
"Mathematics."
Draco made a face.
"Mathematics? How can that be magic? I thought that was just numbers and stuff."
"No, no, it's far from only numbers," said Harry, getting eager. "It's a method of... of describing an exact reality. The closest we may actually ever get to an absolute truth, with no emotional, social or other personal values involved. Exact measurements. An exact description. A universal language describing a universal truth.
Mathematics helped the ancient Greeks construct and build these theatres for optimal distribution of sound. When you stand in the centre of the stage down there, right on the little star mark, your voice can be heard at the top row without your raising it in the slightest. In fact, even a whisper can be heard."
Draco pulled his sunglasses off, visibly impressed. Harry caught his breath. Draco's grey eyes seemed to reflect the blue of sky and sea, the pupils encircled by tiny flames of blue. His face was faintly tanned, glowing now with heat and moisture, damp strands of straight blond hair sticking to his forehead.
You could be a Greek god, thought Harry. Not as beefy and meaty and square-jawed as the ancient statues make them out to be. But you could be a Greek god the way I worship you.
"I want to try it," said Draco.
He rose and began to climb down the rows of seats.
"Why don't you use the steps?" Harry called to him.
Draco showed no sign of having heard him. Harry smiled indulgently as he leant back against the red rock, knowing very well that Draco rarely chose to do things the easiest way.
Draco had reached the stage now, looking around him as if to assess his audience.
But the theatre was emptied; there were only the darting lizards, and Harry, who crossed his ankles and stretched out his arms to let them rest along the stone ridge, feeling the sun beating down. It did have its advantages, being wizards visiting a Muggle place like this. They had put a temporary spell on it, a combined privacy and location and memory spell, that would make it invisible for a short period of time, half an hour or so, and impossible to find. And afterwards anyone who had looked for it would not be able to remember that they had looked.
Draco strolled over to the star-shaped mark at the centre of the stage, his movements relaxed and graceful but carefully calculated and very exact, as always. A feline perfection. It was just one of all the things Harry loved about him. He felt that he could go on watching him forever.
The sun seemed to send sparks shooting and bouncing off the blond hair. Draco stood very still on the star mark, looking up at the single young man who comprised his audience. Harry looked back at him, and for a moment everything stopped; a piece of time was cut out and held there for them, a small eternity that only held the heat of the sun, the colours of the sun-baked rock and earth and the sound of the sea crashing against the foot of the cliff.
It was true. Draco's whisper carried easily up to where Harry sat at the top row. And the moment expanded to embrace this, too; a held breath and a whisper.
"Harry," the whisper said. "I love you. You are everything to me. You are everything."