disclaimer: JKR says lots of things that I don't. actually she said most of it. And she owns all of it. This is just one of those things she'd never say. But still, one can hope, no?
warning: SLASH. H/D.
~~silencio
His touches burned, though all he had of them were memories. Later, he'd look down onto his stomach and his arms and his inner thighs, looking for evidence, but there was none. He felt them still, ghost brands, flaming reminders. His breath was heavy and hot in his ear, against his mouth. He'd stand in the cold morning shower, unable to keep from shivering, his skin over-sensitive, raw and seeming to anticipate the release that never came. He wasn't brave or witty or resourceful-- he was barely himself. In fact, it seemed as if it all had next to nothing to do with him. It was his skin. Burning up, spreading in circles, overlapping and eating more and more of his flesh. It sat like a lump in his throat. To deal with it, he looked straight ahead, but he didn't see. He was ready to give in except he no longer knew what it was he'd be giving in to. Without provocation, without any reason at all, he'd be listless and breathless and flushed. He had to stop, lean against the wall, get his bearings, resist slipping into a fantasy, his mind aching for even an imagined haven, now. He couldn't allow it, yet it was all he wanted.
All Harry wanted was to forget. Just to feel his lips burn, the sweet abandon washing over him, his limbs weakening and that delicious, heady languor stealing over every muscle. Just to slide his arms slowly around Draco's neck, kissing him slowly, thoroughly. Just to let his hands wiggle their way inside his pants, teasing, ghosting ever-closer, but not quite settling over the other's heat, playing with the cooler folds and crevaces. His fingertips tingling as he traced them lightly across the other's flank. Smiling against the other's neck, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. In a suspended, breathless moment, realizing this was enough. Just being this close. Smelling Draco, the sweat and heat and subtle musky essence of him, that hint of honeysuckle and lavender and maybe a bit of citrus, feeling him quiver under his lightest touch, his skin only as far away as a flick of the tongue. It was wrong and doomed, not to mention stupid, but leaning against the cold stones of a Hogwarts corridor, Harry couldn't for the life of him remember why he believed that so fervently. If indeed he did. His righteousness seemed a tad too forceful, too desperate. Since when did he need to reassure himself of his cause? And since when did he actually start hoping he was wrong? Harry was afraid to speak, almost, since he believed one thing in the morning, and completely another thing by night, when he could've screamed for Draco if he didn't clap a hand over his mouth. Best to err on the side of safety, and not say anything.
The words curdled anyway, dying stillborn in his throat. He couldn't force even the usual comebacks and taunts past the huge lump seemingly in permanent residence there. They were both silent, these days. If they did say anything, it wasn't infused with any meaning, but somehow those around them knew to leave them to their thoughts. They didn't look at each other. Harry wasn't sure what he was thinking of, his head was fuzzy, and if an unnecessary thought did surface, like a startled carp, he made sure to drown it, somewhat viciously. He was feeling fine, really. Better than fine. In his dreams, he couldn't see anyone's face-- he couldn't see his face. He could feel the hand, which was usually touching his, tentatively, though unwilling to let go.
"Let go," the voice whispered.
He ignored it, but the voice was all around him, it seemed to be coming from inside him, now. He no longer knew if his internal dialogue was directed at Draco or at himself. When he got angry, it was Malfoy, and the second he felt weakened, it was his own traitorous voice humming in the back of his head. A part of him thought he was missing something-- a part of him thought it didn't matter. None of it mattered. He'll be out in a few months. It'll all be over. Any time you could pretend you're having a new beginning, endings come easily as breath to lungs greedy for air. It felt good to let go. Right. They weren't enemies, and they weren't friends-- they were no longer who they were. Harry was all too eager to no longer be the Boy Who Lived, and the Boy Who Was Envied, and the Boy Who Was Expected to Win. Especially since all of these things were hanging by a thread at any given moment, dependent on his next step not taking him into an abyss he couldn't get out of, this time.
Sometimes, he'd have dreams where he was staring into a mirror, and all he could see would be Malfoy's pale, pointed face, looking at him with an expression he couldn't read no matter how hard he tried. And he'd look closer, and closer, and feel more and more frustrated, feeling a heady return of the old hatred, his very blood boiling, just seeing those calm grey eyes, staring him down. And if he looked away, and if he screamed and threw the mirror to the ground, and if he blinked and closed his eyes, it didn't matter. He was still looking at him, and he didn't need to say anything, all the mean hateful things he said, and never said, and could've said, were crowding inside Harry's head, struggling for dominance, asserting their irresistible presence.
"I hate you!" he screamed, finally, his voice seeming hoarse and unused to his own ears. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you! Go the fuck away, you bastard! Can't you ever stop haunting me? What will it take, Malfoy? What will it take?"
He blinked, and came back to himself, and it was just a mirror, and the dream was all too real, still, but the mirror reflected nothing but his wild, red-rimmed eyes and his messy hair. Harry looked around, cautiously. He was in luck, and there was no one about, though he wasn't quite relieved, since it was disturbing to find oneself flashing bits of one's dreams so intensely that you couldn't tell what was real and what wasn't for a moment.
He frowned irritatedly at the ensuing silence ringing in his ears, and made a face, disgusted with himself. He couldn't believe he'd sunk so low as to yell at himself and pretend it made any difference. Soon he'd be talking to himself and doing crossword puzzles aloud. It wasn't a long road, Harry knew. He was high-strung lately. By effort of will, he unclenched his hands, and breathed deeply, in and out. Finally, he sighed, resigned. It wasn't like he could do anything. Might as well try a different tack.
"I love you, Malfoy," he said, and giggled. Soon, the giggles were guffaws, and he was shaking, and laughing so hard he was crying, having to hold himself up by throwing his arm against the wall. "I love you!" he cried and laughed harder. It was so ridiculous, so completely and utterly ridiculous, it was really quite hilarious. Beautiful, even, in its wrongness. He sank bonelessly down the the floor, sliding down the wall to end up in a heap, his head in his hands. He was smiling like a madman, his eyes stinging and his smile looking strangely like a grimace of pain, but he felt a strange sense of release. It was funny how he wanted to land just one good punch straight on his jaw, and never to see him again, and to hold him tight, his lips brushing against the other's temple, to feel his heartbeat against Malfoy's as he finally slept-- all at once. There was no comfort to be had except in accepting the insanity. Telling him he loved him was as good as the opposite, for all the change it would bring. Harry knew Malfoy had no idea what he meant by that, really. The hate or the love-- neither of them understood it enough to even believe themselves when they said the words. Harry chuckled softly. Nothing meant what it should, in the mad world they created between them. Perhaps that was the attraction. Sure enough, -something- was the attraction, because one way or another, he was drawn to the site of his worst defeat over and over again.
He wanted to breathe it against Malfoy's lips, just as both of them were about to fall asleep, and just as they were waking up, softly, imperceptibly, to carve it on his skin, to have the other wear it, like a bracelet, Harry's need and hopelessness wrapped around him like a physical thing. I love you, he would say, just before either of them was awake. I don't even believe myself, and I don't even believe you, and I'm not really saying this, but I need to say it anyway. He would say all this with three words, barely breathed against soft, warm skin, smooth and full and pliant as he sucked the other's lower lip into his mouth, his teeth closing around it as he sighed. Licking at Draco's mouth, he'd forget what he was saying, as he watched his breath hitch even though he still slept. He would groan and shift closer, seeking more and more electric skin, seeking that precious moment when thought was extraneous and unnecessary and impossible.
And then Draco's eyes would open and he would look at him, and not try to say anything, just look at him. His tongue would dart out to lick at Harry's upper lip, all the while wearing an intent, serious expression, his gaze never wavering, no moan or sigh escaping him. And Harry would feel chagrined and foolish about his earlier internal battles, his need for words and reassurances and things that made sense, his need to remain who he always was and yet run away from it. The future was a strange, malleable concept, apparently, because just looking into Draco's eyes was enough to see exactly as much as he needed to of his fate.
If he could have that quiet, still moment, Harry thought, he could let go. They could stop talking at each other, and stop pushing at each other, and stop trying to always keep one step ahead. He thought he wanted nothing more to do with any of it, but maybe all he wanted was silence, and that wasn't quite what he thought it was. Maybe silence was freedom from either "I love you" or "I hate you". Maybe it was just looking into the other's eyes, and letting the unspoken things lie down and rest in the moonlit paths opening between them. Words were their downfall, it seemed. The only truth to be found lay in hiding, slipping behind the last word, waiting at the trailing edge of the last breath. Harry wanted to believe it. He didn't have to, he knew. He could just turn away, or at least pretend he could, for awhile longer, just to prove that he would never be the one to break. It will never be him. Never.
Harry couldn't imagine any of this actually happening while they could still talk nonsense at each other. If he wanted change, he'd have to make it happen. If silence is what it took, silence is what they would have. He had a vague memory of a potion that had the results he was looking for-- at last, not falling prey to the many irritants in Snape's class this past year seemed worthwhile. All he had to do was find a way to slip some into Draco's drink, and then get him alone. The rest should take care of itself. Harry closed his eyes, suddenly feeling quite drained. He didn't know why he still bothered, except that completely unreasonable, stupid feeling, that wasn't going away, which he couldn't name. He wouldn't name. It had no name. He nodded to himself. He was simply trying something, his last chance, his need to be quite sure in his conviction that this -was- quite impossible. He was right. Of course he was... but it didn't hurt making sure. He started making a list of needed ingredients, in his head. He didn't notice himself smiling, and neither did he notice that finally, he wasn't thinking of the things he was trying not to think of. Harry Potter was embracing the contradictions, and crossing the rifts between. He wasn't leaving anymore, but he was finally letting go.
~~
Harry didn't know how he'd gotten outside. It was cold, though, and his fingers were getting too stiff to move, and the birds were louder than his heartbeat in his ears. He was breathing fast, unaccountably anxious. His resolve seemed to be quickly melting, even as the water froze on the ground. He couldn't really believe he did it. He'd acted just like Draco had used to, before. He had to resist the urge to look back, check again and again that indeed, Draco was not about to follow. Draco would never follow. Even if he said something that made him think of him being under Harry's power, it was really just a game to him. A game he played with himself. He didn't even need Harry there, to be the antagonist or the lover. He was there as a symbol, for Draco as well as the rest of the wizarding world-- to be wanted or hated. Or both. Harry's toes were starting to go completely numb, as well as his nose and his chin. He didn't care. He was angry again.
"Don't you like me this way," Draco had demanded, a week before the end had come. "Don't you get off on this, Potter?"
He had charmed his wrists and ankles to be bound to the bed. His stare was challenging, cold, but the evidence of his arousal was all too obvious.
"I just want you how you are," he'd said, then. Draco had laughed, without much humor.
"Just keep telling yourself that. Even I don't want me how I am, not like this, not with you."
"Why the hell does this have to be so difficult?" he'd asked, not for the first time. He just wanted... he just wanted to kiss that smirk off his mouth.
"What did you expect from me, Potter? Cupcakes?"
Harry had sighed. "I can never win, with you, can I."
"You said it, not me," Draco had drawled in his old tone, attempting smugness but not quite reaching it.
"I don't want to win anymore. You win. So what do you want?"
"I don't know," Draco had said, finally. "Isn't that just hilarious? I don't know. To be inside you. Isn't that good enough anymore, -Potter-?" He said it as a taunt, but Harry knew he was really just being frustrated with his own chosen bondage. His eyes, hooded, emitting swell after swell of sweltering heat waves.
At that point, Harry had pretty much growled in frustration and launched himself at Draco, lifting his restraints, starting a sort of casual scuffle they'd engaged in now and again, just to break the tension. It didn't really work, and they ended up breathless and turned on and somewhat confused as to why they just couldn't seem to have a straight fight anymore-- it just didn't work anymore. Anytime they touched, sparks went off and it's like they forgot themselves and only remembered their need for skin to skin contact, right that second. Not that Draco was complaining. Harry, on the other hand, was always furious with himself.
Harry had begun to distrust sex, much as he enjoyed the release of it. It just prolonged things and made them more painful. Like at this moment, when supposedly he should've been resolute and almost vindicated, though he'd made no victory, all he wanted was that hot breath against his mouth, that hand clutching at the back of his neck, those teeth nipping at his bottom lip, almost breaking the skin, needling him with little jolts of pain that went straight down to his center. Harry couldn't stop the rush of sensations even imagining these things caused. He couldn't stop the helpless need he still drowned in, the desire to run as fast as he could, the way he came, the only thing on his mind being, would he catch Malfoy still where he left him. Would he be there? Would he have wanted him, if he'd just forgone words altogether, and rushed him? Would he have responded without any reservations? Could they hold still in that moment, distill it somehow, purify it. Could they exist in those fleeting minutes when they were utterly united in a singular desire? Did that even mean anything?
It didn't matter, Harry thought. It didn't matter, because they couldn't, they couldn't make that moment stay any more than they could make any moment stay, of resolution or of weakness, of passion or of apathy. They had mapped out this place well. A no-man's land, nowhere one could live, nowhere one could settle, but they had. They'd settled here, where there was nothing for them, not air to breathe, not ground to support them. Everywhere you looked, it was the same bleak nothingness. Draco had almost gotten used to it, but Harry still felt a fresh surge of indignation and rage at his powerlessness every time he paid any attention to it.
Harry blew on his fingers, trying to regain feeling. Finally, realizing he was standing around, not moving, in the snow, he turned to head back to Hogwarts. At the last minute, he changed his mind, and laid down in the snow. He stared up into the sky, grey and featureless and completely unreadable, just like Draco's eyes. He moved his arms around in semi-circles, making his snow angel without much thought. He was quite surprised when he saw booted feet standing right by his head. Blinking the sun out of his eyes, as he tried to look upwards to see who it was, he was greeted by a familiar droll voice. "Having a nice morning ice-bath, Potter? I know I get you excited, but this is still probably going a bit over-board."
Harry sniffed, too tired and deeply upset this time to offer up a sporting reply.
"What, no gems of Potter wit to share with me?"
"What the hell are you doing here, Draco?"
"Oh, just passing by. Slytherin business, of course. Fancy running into you."
"Yeah, of course. Just passing by."
"Oh, don't be so melodramatic, by Merlin, you'll age before your time. Worse than me."
"Am I, really?"
"See? That's what I meant. There you go again."
Harry pushed himself up to his feet again, staring intently into Draco's eyes, shadowed and swaddled in impossibly dense, foggy grey. "Let's not argue, please," Harry said, dully.
"Sure. I'm all for that. Not argue. Right. Of course."
"Oh, don't patronize me, you know what I mean, Malfoy."
"Oh yeah, of course I know. You'd made sure to tell me, haven't you."
"I have."
Inwardly, Harry was thinking, unbelievable. Let down my guard for one second, and this happens. Someone up there must really dislike me, he thought sourly. He's just an insufferable git like I always thought. What's gotten into me? Stupid, heartless bastard. Harry raised his wand and leveled it at Draco, unsmiling.
"No more of this. No more, Draco." He summoned all his strength and conviction, thrusting it into this one moment. Five minutes later, he'd be a quivering mass of pain and regret, but right now, he would show Malfoy. He didn't know what he'd show him. But he'd show him.
Draco's face twisted and his lip curled in that familiar way, almost reassuring. "So, that's how it's going to be, eh, Potter?" He drew out his own wand and stood there, caressing idly along its length. Harry swallowed.
"Are you sure you wouldn't want to get some other use out of my wand?" Draco said, in a low, drawling voice, sending prickles down Harry's neck.
"Fuck you," Harry spat, viciously, all of a sudden. "This is just a fucking game to you, isn't it?" He was beginning to feel a good shouting match coming on, and he was glad of it. This was better. He understood this. They knew all about this.
"Yeah, and I'm winning."
Neither could tell, later, who cast the first spell, who yelled the first curse. Harry went on auto-pilot, his mind in the same careful trance as when he had a surprise test in Transfiguration, say. He couldn't consciously do this faster than Malfoy, so he relied purely on instinct as usual.
"Silencio Totalus," he yelled, faster than he could think, and before he could do much other than blink in surprise, Draco had fallen to one knee on the ground-- rendered, literally, speechless. Harry couldn't bear to look at him. He took off at a run, feeling guilty and heartsick and very much the loser. He couldn't take it, couldn't take fighting him. He couldn't take any of this anymore. He was repeatedly discovering that when it came to Draco Malfoy, all his reserves had been tapped. He was exhausted. He had so many battles ahead of him, he knew, and this did not bode well, but he simply could not spare another ounce of his strength for any of these confrontations. It simply took too much out of him-- more than anything else. He'd rather fight Voldemort, one on one, any day. That just took speed and luck and cunning. This... he didn't know what it took. But he knew that inevitably, he failed.
He'd run all the way to the Great Hall this way, without thinking. Bursting in, eyes wild, several somewhat embarrassing marks of no-holds-barred magical combat written all over his skin, he met Ron and Hermione's bewildered, concerned stares. "It's nothing," he said, sitting down, looking with apparent fascination at the swirls of wood within the table. "It's nothing. Just Malfoy." He should've known. Getting what he wanted always seemed to turn out to be its very opposite.
~~
warning: SLASH. H/D.
~~silencio
His touches burned, though all he had of them were memories. Later, he'd look down onto his stomach and his arms and his inner thighs, looking for evidence, but there was none. He felt them still, ghost brands, flaming reminders. His breath was heavy and hot in his ear, against his mouth. He'd stand in the cold morning shower, unable to keep from shivering, his skin over-sensitive, raw and seeming to anticipate the release that never came. He wasn't brave or witty or resourceful-- he was barely himself. In fact, it seemed as if it all had next to nothing to do with him. It was his skin. Burning up, spreading in circles, overlapping and eating more and more of his flesh. It sat like a lump in his throat. To deal with it, he looked straight ahead, but he didn't see. He was ready to give in except he no longer knew what it was he'd be giving in to. Without provocation, without any reason at all, he'd be listless and breathless and flushed. He had to stop, lean against the wall, get his bearings, resist slipping into a fantasy, his mind aching for even an imagined haven, now. He couldn't allow it, yet it was all he wanted.
All Harry wanted was to forget. Just to feel his lips burn, the sweet abandon washing over him, his limbs weakening and that delicious, heady languor stealing over every muscle. Just to slide his arms slowly around Draco's neck, kissing him slowly, thoroughly. Just to let his hands wiggle their way inside his pants, teasing, ghosting ever-closer, but not quite settling over the other's heat, playing with the cooler folds and crevaces. His fingertips tingling as he traced them lightly across the other's flank. Smiling against the other's neck, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. In a suspended, breathless moment, realizing this was enough. Just being this close. Smelling Draco, the sweat and heat and subtle musky essence of him, that hint of honeysuckle and lavender and maybe a bit of citrus, feeling him quiver under his lightest touch, his skin only as far away as a flick of the tongue. It was wrong and doomed, not to mention stupid, but leaning against the cold stones of a Hogwarts corridor, Harry couldn't for the life of him remember why he believed that so fervently. If indeed he did. His righteousness seemed a tad too forceful, too desperate. Since when did he need to reassure himself of his cause? And since when did he actually start hoping he was wrong? Harry was afraid to speak, almost, since he believed one thing in the morning, and completely another thing by night, when he could've screamed for Draco if he didn't clap a hand over his mouth. Best to err on the side of safety, and not say anything.
The words curdled anyway, dying stillborn in his throat. He couldn't force even the usual comebacks and taunts past the huge lump seemingly in permanent residence there. They were both silent, these days. If they did say anything, it wasn't infused with any meaning, but somehow those around them knew to leave them to their thoughts. They didn't look at each other. Harry wasn't sure what he was thinking of, his head was fuzzy, and if an unnecessary thought did surface, like a startled carp, he made sure to drown it, somewhat viciously. He was feeling fine, really. Better than fine. In his dreams, he couldn't see anyone's face-- he couldn't see his face. He could feel the hand, which was usually touching his, tentatively, though unwilling to let go.
"Let go," the voice whispered.
He ignored it, but the voice was all around him, it seemed to be coming from inside him, now. He no longer knew if his internal dialogue was directed at Draco or at himself. When he got angry, it was Malfoy, and the second he felt weakened, it was his own traitorous voice humming in the back of his head. A part of him thought he was missing something-- a part of him thought it didn't matter. None of it mattered. He'll be out in a few months. It'll all be over. Any time you could pretend you're having a new beginning, endings come easily as breath to lungs greedy for air. It felt good to let go. Right. They weren't enemies, and they weren't friends-- they were no longer who they were. Harry was all too eager to no longer be the Boy Who Lived, and the Boy Who Was Envied, and the Boy Who Was Expected to Win. Especially since all of these things were hanging by a thread at any given moment, dependent on his next step not taking him into an abyss he couldn't get out of, this time.
Sometimes, he'd have dreams where he was staring into a mirror, and all he could see would be Malfoy's pale, pointed face, looking at him with an expression he couldn't read no matter how hard he tried. And he'd look closer, and closer, and feel more and more frustrated, feeling a heady return of the old hatred, his very blood boiling, just seeing those calm grey eyes, staring him down. And if he looked away, and if he screamed and threw the mirror to the ground, and if he blinked and closed his eyes, it didn't matter. He was still looking at him, and he didn't need to say anything, all the mean hateful things he said, and never said, and could've said, were crowding inside Harry's head, struggling for dominance, asserting their irresistible presence.
"I hate you!" he screamed, finally, his voice seeming hoarse and unused to his own ears. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you! Go the fuck away, you bastard! Can't you ever stop haunting me? What will it take, Malfoy? What will it take?"
He blinked, and came back to himself, and it was just a mirror, and the dream was all too real, still, but the mirror reflected nothing but his wild, red-rimmed eyes and his messy hair. Harry looked around, cautiously. He was in luck, and there was no one about, though he wasn't quite relieved, since it was disturbing to find oneself flashing bits of one's dreams so intensely that you couldn't tell what was real and what wasn't for a moment.
He frowned irritatedly at the ensuing silence ringing in his ears, and made a face, disgusted with himself. He couldn't believe he'd sunk so low as to yell at himself and pretend it made any difference. Soon he'd be talking to himself and doing crossword puzzles aloud. It wasn't a long road, Harry knew. He was high-strung lately. By effort of will, he unclenched his hands, and breathed deeply, in and out. Finally, he sighed, resigned. It wasn't like he could do anything. Might as well try a different tack.
"I love you, Malfoy," he said, and giggled. Soon, the giggles were guffaws, and he was shaking, and laughing so hard he was crying, having to hold himself up by throwing his arm against the wall. "I love you!" he cried and laughed harder. It was so ridiculous, so completely and utterly ridiculous, it was really quite hilarious. Beautiful, even, in its wrongness. He sank bonelessly down the the floor, sliding down the wall to end up in a heap, his head in his hands. He was smiling like a madman, his eyes stinging and his smile looking strangely like a grimace of pain, but he felt a strange sense of release. It was funny how he wanted to land just one good punch straight on his jaw, and never to see him again, and to hold him tight, his lips brushing against the other's temple, to feel his heartbeat against Malfoy's as he finally slept-- all at once. There was no comfort to be had except in accepting the insanity. Telling him he loved him was as good as the opposite, for all the change it would bring. Harry knew Malfoy had no idea what he meant by that, really. The hate or the love-- neither of them understood it enough to even believe themselves when they said the words. Harry chuckled softly. Nothing meant what it should, in the mad world they created between them. Perhaps that was the attraction. Sure enough, -something- was the attraction, because one way or another, he was drawn to the site of his worst defeat over and over again.
He wanted to breathe it against Malfoy's lips, just as both of them were about to fall asleep, and just as they were waking up, softly, imperceptibly, to carve it on his skin, to have the other wear it, like a bracelet, Harry's need and hopelessness wrapped around him like a physical thing. I love you, he would say, just before either of them was awake. I don't even believe myself, and I don't even believe you, and I'm not really saying this, but I need to say it anyway. He would say all this with three words, barely breathed against soft, warm skin, smooth and full and pliant as he sucked the other's lower lip into his mouth, his teeth closing around it as he sighed. Licking at Draco's mouth, he'd forget what he was saying, as he watched his breath hitch even though he still slept. He would groan and shift closer, seeking more and more electric skin, seeking that precious moment when thought was extraneous and unnecessary and impossible.
And then Draco's eyes would open and he would look at him, and not try to say anything, just look at him. His tongue would dart out to lick at Harry's upper lip, all the while wearing an intent, serious expression, his gaze never wavering, no moan or sigh escaping him. And Harry would feel chagrined and foolish about his earlier internal battles, his need for words and reassurances and things that made sense, his need to remain who he always was and yet run away from it. The future was a strange, malleable concept, apparently, because just looking into Draco's eyes was enough to see exactly as much as he needed to of his fate.
If he could have that quiet, still moment, Harry thought, he could let go. They could stop talking at each other, and stop pushing at each other, and stop trying to always keep one step ahead. He thought he wanted nothing more to do with any of it, but maybe all he wanted was silence, and that wasn't quite what he thought it was. Maybe silence was freedom from either "I love you" or "I hate you". Maybe it was just looking into the other's eyes, and letting the unspoken things lie down and rest in the moonlit paths opening between them. Words were their downfall, it seemed. The only truth to be found lay in hiding, slipping behind the last word, waiting at the trailing edge of the last breath. Harry wanted to believe it. He didn't have to, he knew. He could just turn away, or at least pretend he could, for awhile longer, just to prove that he would never be the one to break. It will never be him. Never.
Harry couldn't imagine any of this actually happening while they could still talk nonsense at each other. If he wanted change, he'd have to make it happen. If silence is what it took, silence is what they would have. He had a vague memory of a potion that had the results he was looking for-- at last, not falling prey to the many irritants in Snape's class this past year seemed worthwhile. All he had to do was find a way to slip some into Draco's drink, and then get him alone. The rest should take care of itself. Harry closed his eyes, suddenly feeling quite drained. He didn't know why he still bothered, except that completely unreasonable, stupid feeling, that wasn't going away, which he couldn't name. He wouldn't name. It had no name. He nodded to himself. He was simply trying something, his last chance, his need to be quite sure in his conviction that this -was- quite impossible. He was right. Of course he was... but it didn't hurt making sure. He started making a list of needed ingredients, in his head. He didn't notice himself smiling, and neither did he notice that finally, he wasn't thinking of the things he was trying not to think of. Harry Potter was embracing the contradictions, and crossing the rifts between. He wasn't leaving anymore, but he was finally letting go.
~~
Harry didn't know how he'd gotten outside. It was cold, though, and his fingers were getting too stiff to move, and the birds were louder than his heartbeat in his ears. He was breathing fast, unaccountably anxious. His resolve seemed to be quickly melting, even as the water froze on the ground. He couldn't really believe he did it. He'd acted just like Draco had used to, before. He had to resist the urge to look back, check again and again that indeed, Draco was not about to follow. Draco would never follow. Even if he said something that made him think of him being under Harry's power, it was really just a game to him. A game he played with himself. He didn't even need Harry there, to be the antagonist or the lover. He was there as a symbol, for Draco as well as the rest of the wizarding world-- to be wanted or hated. Or both. Harry's toes were starting to go completely numb, as well as his nose and his chin. He didn't care. He was angry again.
"Don't you like me this way," Draco had demanded, a week before the end had come. "Don't you get off on this, Potter?"
He had charmed his wrists and ankles to be bound to the bed. His stare was challenging, cold, but the evidence of his arousal was all too obvious.
"I just want you how you are," he'd said, then. Draco had laughed, without much humor.
"Just keep telling yourself that. Even I don't want me how I am, not like this, not with you."
"Why the hell does this have to be so difficult?" he'd asked, not for the first time. He just wanted... he just wanted to kiss that smirk off his mouth.
"What did you expect from me, Potter? Cupcakes?"
Harry had sighed. "I can never win, with you, can I."
"You said it, not me," Draco had drawled in his old tone, attempting smugness but not quite reaching it.
"I don't want to win anymore. You win. So what do you want?"
"I don't know," Draco had said, finally. "Isn't that just hilarious? I don't know. To be inside you. Isn't that good enough anymore, -Potter-?" He said it as a taunt, but Harry knew he was really just being frustrated with his own chosen bondage. His eyes, hooded, emitting swell after swell of sweltering heat waves.
At that point, Harry had pretty much growled in frustration and launched himself at Draco, lifting his restraints, starting a sort of casual scuffle they'd engaged in now and again, just to break the tension. It didn't really work, and they ended up breathless and turned on and somewhat confused as to why they just couldn't seem to have a straight fight anymore-- it just didn't work anymore. Anytime they touched, sparks went off and it's like they forgot themselves and only remembered their need for skin to skin contact, right that second. Not that Draco was complaining. Harry, on the other hand, was always furious with himself.
Harry had begun to distrust sex, much as he enjoyed the release of it. It just prolonged things and made them more painful. Like at this moment, when supposedly he should've been resolute and almost vindicated, though he'd made no victory, all he wanted was that hot breath against his mouth, that hand clutching at the back of his neck, those teeth nipping at his bottom lip, almost breaking the skin, needling him with little jolts of pain that went straight down to his center. Harry couldn't stop the rush of sensations even imagining these things caused. He couldn't stop the helpless need he still drowned in, the desire to run as fast as he could, the way he came, the only thing on his mind being, would he catch Malfoy still where he left him. Would he be there? Would he have wanted him, if he'd just forgone words altogether, and rushed him? Would he have responded without any reservations? Could they hold still in that moment, distill it somehow, purify it. Could they exist in those fleeting minutes when they were utterly united in a singular desire? Did that even mean anything?
It didn't matter, Harry thought. It didn't matter, because they couldn't, they couldn't make that moment stay any more than they could make any moment stay, of resolution or of weakness, of passion or of apathy. They had mapped out this place well. A no-man's land, nowhere one could live, nowhere one could settle, but they had. They'd settled here, where there was nothing for them, not air to breathe, not ground to support them. Everywhere you looked, it was the same bleak nothingness. Draco had almost gotten used to it, but Harry still felt a fresh surge of indignation and rage at his powerlessness every time he paid any attention to it.
Harry blew on his fingers, trying to regain feeling. Finally, realizing he was standing around, not moving, in the snow, he turned to head back to Hogwarts. At the last minute, he changed his mind, and laid down in the snow. He stared up into the sky, grey and featureless and completely unreadable, just like Draco's eyes. He moved his arms around in semi-circles, making his snow angel without much thought. He was quite surprised when he saw booted feet standing right by his head. Blinking the sun out of his eyes, as he tried to look upwards to see who it was, he was greeted by a familiar droll voice. "Having a nice morning ice-bath, Potter? I know I get you excited, but this is still probably going a bit over-board."
Harry sniffed, too tired and deeply upset this time to offer up a sporting reply.
"What, no gems of Potter wit to share with me?"
"What the hell are you doing here, Draco?"
"Oh, just passing by. Slytherin business, of course. Fancy running into you."
"Yeah, of course. Just passing by."
"Oh, don't be so melodramatic, by Merlin, you'll age before your time. Worse than me."
"Am I, really?"
"See? That's what I meant. There you go again."
Harry pushed himself up to his feet again, staring intently into Draco's eyes, shadowed and swaddled in impossibly dense, foggy grey. "Let's not argue, please," Harry said, dully.
"Sure. I'm all for that. Not argue. Right. Of course."
"Oh, don't patronize me, you know what I mean, Malfoy."
"Oh yeah, of course I know. You'd made sure to tell me, haven't you."
"I have."
Inwardly, Harry was thinking, unbelievable. Let down my guard for one second, and this happens. Someone up there must really dislike me, he thought sourly. He's just an insufferable git like I always thought. What's gotten into me? Stupid, heartless bastard. Harry raised his wand and leveled it at Draco, unsmiling.
"No more of this. No more, Draco." He summoned all his strength and conviction, thrusting it into this one moment. Five minutes later, he'd be a quivering mass of pain and regret, but right now, he would show Malfoy. He didn't know what he'd show him. But he'd show him.
Draco's face twisted and his lip curled in that familiar way, almost reassuring. "So, that's how it's going to be, eh, Potter?" He drew out his own wand and stood there, caressing idly along its length. Harry swallowed.
"Are you sure you wouldn't want to get some other use out of my wand?" Draco said, in a low, drawling voice, sending prickles down Harry's neck.
"Fuck you," Harry spat, viciously, all of a sudden. "This is just a fucking game to you, isn't it?" He was beginning to feel a good shouting match coming on, and he was glad of it. This was better. He understood this. They knew all about this.
"Yeah, and I'm winning."
Neither could tell, later, who cast the first spell, who yelled the first curse. Harry went on auto-pilot, his mind in the same careful trance as when he had a surprise test in Transfiguration, say. He couldn't consciously do this faster than Malfoy, so he relied purely on instinct as usual.
"Silencio Totalus," he yelled, faster than he could think, and before he could do much other than blink in surprise, Draco had fallen to one knee on the ground-- rendered, literally, speechless. Harry couldn't bear to look at him. He took off at a run, feeling guilty and heartsick and very much the loser. He couldn't take it, couldn't take fighting him. He couldn't take any of this anymore. He was repeatedly discovering that when it came to Draco Malfoy, all his reserves had been tapped. He was exhausted. He had so many battles ahead of him, he knew, and this did not bode well, but he simply could not spare another ounce of his strength for any of these confrontations. It simply took too much out of him-- more than anything else. He'd rather fight Voldemort, one on one, any day. That just took speed and luck and cunning. This... he didn't know what it took. But he knew that inevitably, he failed.
He'd run all the way to the Great Hall this way, without thinking. Bursting in, eyes wild, several somewhat embarrassing marks of no-holds-barred magical combat written all over his skin, he met Ron and Hermione's bewildered, concerned stares. "It's nothing," he said, sitting down, looking with apparent fascination at the swirls of wood within the table. "It's nothing. Just Malfoy." He should've known. Getting what he wanted always seemed to turn out to be its very opposite.
~~