A/N: This is a collaboration between Karen Ilus and Miaka
(AngelicFruitcake). Written in alternating chapters, Karen writes from
Draco's perspective and Miaka writes from Harry's perspective. All of
Draco's dialogue and mannerisms are decided by Karen and Harry's are
decided by Miaka, regardless of who wrote the chapter. Thanks to our
wonderful beta Orpheus.
Time Cannot Erase
Draco's POV by Karen Ilus
My hold on reality is tentative at best. I'm losing it and I am gradually getting worse. I never really believed that I was fighting a losing battle, but now I realize that that's how it's going to play out for me. My life did end three years ago. What I have now is meagre and meaningless and insignificant. I work and live among Muggles, adapting and pretending to belong. I work for them and I do things the way they do them and sometimes, if I don't think too hard, I can forget the past.
At other times, I'm back at the manor trapped in an endless moment; my mother on the drawing room floor, dead possibly for weeks. I see Lucius and there is no more memory. At times, it goes further but I force it down and think of something else. That doesn't really work because it's playing in the back of my mind; one long continuous loop. Occasionally I wonder if a quick Obliviate spell would be so bad after all. A breach of my own rules but at least I would gain a loss of identity. I'm not sure what stops me. I never intentionally seek out the past but it seems that everything I come in contact with triggers some distant memory, usually of the worse kind but sometimes it's happy.
Most of the time it's fragments of both. a fleeting touch an icy look a warm smile whispered conversations Honestly, I don't know what's worse. There are times I can't separate memories from reality. I've lost focus. It's already been a long day. I washed the front counter numerous times. Lunchtime is approaching and it's getting busy. The diner rarely fills, but there are enough customers to keep things running. I see a lot of faces. Usually it's a mix of regulars and Muggles from out of town, who stop by on their way to somewhere else. I pay attention. I never know when the past will catch up to me. Today it finally does, but it's certainly not who I expected. Out of the blue, he walks in. It's almost anticlimactic how simply and quietly he re-enters my life. At lunchtime, among Muggles, in a foreign country as far away from my past and my upbringing as possible. There he is, head bowed and inconspicuous.
Harry's POV by Miaka
Another day. Another month. Another country. Scenery flies by the taxicab window and blurs together at a dizzying rate. What country am I in again? The driver's talking. Small talk, inane conversation about the weather or local tourist traps or some other mind-numbing topic. He doesn't even seem to notice that I have yet to respond. But he's speaking in English, which narrows down the list of possible countries. I glance at the colourful bills in my wallet. Oh, right. New Zealand.
What the fuck am I doing in New Zealand?
Escaping, of course, but I don't like to admit that to myself. And I'm not talking about some two-week escape to Paradise only to return to the humdrum rat race that is daily life. I'm talking about escaping from all of it. My past. My present. My life.
I don't like to admit it to myself. But sometimes, when the liquor is flowing freely (and last night was definitely one of those nights) I find myself unable to escape those alcohol-induced moments of clarity—when I have to stop lying to myself, and face the me in the mirror, lightning bolt scar and all.
And then I drink some more, until my brain returns to its preferred hazy state, and life gets so much softer and easier to deal with. And the scars, both physical and emotional, don't seem to cut so deep.
I light a cigarette and take a drag as the cabbie yammers on. No, I'm not hungry and no, I don't want something to eat. But I might pretend I am just to get him to drop me off at whatever diner he was recommending so I don't have to listen to his incessant blabbering anymore.
He stops talking long enough to notice me in the rear view mirror. "Hey, buddy. You can't smoke in the cab."
I glare at him, but he won't notice because my eyes are obscured by dark sunglasses. I don't remove them because glaring has never gotten me much of anything, and so I concede and flick the cigarette out the window. Maybe that diner really is a good idea. I say that to the cabbie and he makes a u- turn, pulling around and turning into a small parking lot. A little sign in the diner window says "Yes, we're open!"
I step out of the cab, toss some of those colourful bills at the driver, and thank him for his advice. The diner is small, the blinds are drawn against the afternoon sun shining brightly over the horizon. Breakfast would be good. I haven't eaten since some time yesterday afternoon. Unless you count the limes that came with the margaritas. Hey, limes are food.
A little bell over the door chimes as I push it open. A blond behind the counter looks up from his cleaning duties as I glance around the room. This looks like a place for the locals. I don't fit in well with the locals. But if the locals come here, the food must be good. There's an empty booth towards the back, and I make my way towards it.
A plastic menu is tucked behind the salt and pepper shakers and the napkin dispenser. A quick glance at the menu shows typical diner fare, basic, simple home-cooked food. Simple is good. Eggs, bacon, biscuits. Where is the damned waiter? I remove my sunglasses, wincing at the invasion of light, and look towards the counter. The blond seems to be the only one working. He avoids my gaze. Why is this place so highly recommended again? Certainly not for the stellar service.
He looks at me, and then quickly away again, staring at the counter as if steeling himself to coming over. For a fleeting instant I'm reminded of Wizarding London, and paranoia starts to creep in. I have to fight the urge to pull my bangs over my forehead to cover the scar. But no. This is a Muggle waiter. He has no idea who I am....
Time Cannot Erase
Draco's POV by Karen Ilus
My hold on reality is tentative at best. I'm losing it and I am gradually getting worse. I never really believed that I was fighting a losing battle, but now I realize that that's how it's going to play out for me. My life did end three years ago. What I have now is meagre and meaningless and insignificant. I work and live among Muggles, adapting and pretending to belong. I work for them and I do things the way they do them and sometimes, if I don't think too hard, I can forget the past.
At other times, I'm back at the manor trapped in an endless moment; my mother on the drawing room floor, dead possibly for weeks. I see Lucius and there is no more memory. At times, it goes further but I force it down and think of something else. That doesn't really work because it's playing in the back of my mind; one long continuous loop. Occasionally I wonder if a quick Obliviate spell would be so bad after all. A breach of my own rules but at least I would gain a loss of identity. I'm not sure what stops me. I never intentionally seek out the past but it seems that everything I come in contact with triggers some distant memory, usually of the worse kind but sometimes it's happy.
Most of the time it's fragments of both. a fleeting touch an icy look a warm smile whispered conversations Honestly, I don't know what's worse. There are times I can't separate memories from reality. I've lost focus. It's already been a long day. I washed the front counter numerous times. Lunchtime is approaching and it's getting busy. The diner rarely fills, but there are enough customers to keep things running. I see a lot of faces. Usually it's a mix of regulars and Muggles from out of town, who stop by on their way to somewhere else. I pay attention. I never know when the past will catch up to me. Today it finally does, but it's certainly not who I expected. Out of the blue, he walks in. It's almost anticlimactic how simply and quietly he re-enters my life. At lunchtime, among Muggles, in a foreign country as far away from my past and my upbringing as possible. There he is, head bowed and inconspicuous.
Harry's POV by Miaka
Another day. Another month. Another country. Scenery flies by the taxicab window and blurs together at a dizzying rate. What country am I in again? The driver's talking. Small talk, inane conversation about the weather or local tourist traps or some other mind-numbing topic. He doesn't even seem to notice that I have yet to respond. But he's speaking in English, which narrows down the list of possible countries. I glance at the colourful bills in my wallet. Oh, right. New Zealand.
What the fuck am I doing in New Zealand?
Escaping, of course, but I don't like to admit that to myself. And I'm not talking about some two-week escape to Paradise only to return to the humdrum rat race that is daily life. I'm talking about escaping from all of it. My past. My present. My life.
I don't like to admit it to myself. But sometimes, when the liquor is flowing freely (and last night was definitely one of those nights) I find myself unable to escape those alcohol-induced moments of clarity—when I have to stop lying to myself, and face the me in the mirror, lightning bolt scar and all.
And then I drink some more, until my brain returns to its preferred hazy state, and life gets so much softer and easier to deal with. And the scars, both physical and emotional, don't seem to cut so deep.
I light a cigarette and take a drag as the cabbie yammers on. No, I'm not hungry and no, I don't want something to eat. But I might pretend I am just to get him to drop me off at whatever diner he was recommending so I don't have to listen to his incessant blabbering anymore.
He stops talking long enough to notice me in the rear view mirror. "Hey, buddy. You can't smoke in the cab."
I glare at him, but he won't notice because my eyes are obscured by dark sunglasses. I don't remove them because glaring has never gotten me much of anything, and so I concede and flick the cigarette out the window. Maybe that diner really is a good idea. I say that to the cabbie and he makes a u- turn, pulling around and turning into a small parking lot. A little sign in the diner window says "Yes, we're open!"
I step out of the cab, toss some of those colourful bills at the driver, and thank him for his advice. The diner is small, the blinds are drawn against the afternoon sun shining brightly over the horizon. Breakfast would be good. I haven't eaten since some time yesterday afternoon. Unless you count the limes that came with the margaritas. Hey, limes are food.
A little bell over the door chimes as I push it open. A blond behind the counter looks up from his cleaning duties as I glance around the room. This looks like a place for the locals. I don't fit in well with the locals. But if the locals come here, the food must be good. There's an empty booth towards the back, and I make my way towards it.
A plastic menu is tucked behind the salt and pepper shakers and the napkin dispenser. A quick glance at the menu shows typical diner fare, basic, simple home-cooked food. Simple is good. Eggs, bacon, biscuits. Where is the damned waiter? I remove my sunglasses, wincing at the invasion of light, and look towards the counter. The blond seems to be the only one working. He avoids my gaze. Why is this place so highly recommended again? Certainly not for the stellar service.
He looks at me, and then quickly away again, staring at the counter as if steeling himself to coming over. For a fleeting instant I'm reminded of Wizarding London, and paranoia starts to creep in. I have to fight the urge to pull my bangs over my forehead to cover the scar. But no. This is a Muggle waiter. He has no idea who I am....