Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter.
Summary: Portkeyed to a savage northland wilderness, Draco and Harry must survive. Draco becomes inexorably bound to the wild and to Harry. Slash.
Aurora
Chapter Two: Morning Star
A wide river rushed passed them, frothy and opaque like diluted milk, chunks of ice caught in the swift current and bobbing every now and then to the surface like a drowning glacier. It threatened and rumbled at Draco, who stood on the bank and watched it with irrevocable anguish. A few steps on the opposite bank was the entrance to a cave, its dark hole protruding from the ground, surrounded by bushes. It was shelter, and it was impossible to reach.
"I don't know how we are going to ford it," spoke Harry softly from several meters behind him. Draco watched the angry waters.
"We can't."
"We have to try. This is the only shelter we've seen in miles. We're both tired and famished and –"
Draco spun around and glared viciously at Harry. "The river doesn't care if you're hungry, Potter. It doesn't care if you're cold, or sad, or lonely. It will devour you." He paused contemplatively. "On that note, it's a grand idea. Step right up."
Harry sighed, his face ashen and drawn. "Upstream, then."
They walked parallel yet quite far apart. Harry's eyes darted around the trees; his whole body twitched whenever a twig snapped. He must have thought the Dark Lord was hiding behind a shrub, waiting to attack. He probably brooded on the situation, wondered what mayhem was wreaked at Hogwarts after he disappeared. He might, Draco thought, be so arrogant as to believe that Voldemort sent him here to get him out of the way, as if Harry and only Harry stood in the way of his seizure of the school.
Draco scoffed to himself, then lifted his eyes to the sky. He thought detachedly that he should be more frightened, more angry at Harry, more concerned for himself. But he wasn't. Something had gripped him; an unbroken calm had coiled around his insides. It was cooler and more peaceful than any of the emotions that conflicted within him since the beginning of the term. It was a relief, he realized. Yes, he was stranded with Harry Potter. Yes, he was without magic, but magic and wizards and his chaotic life was left behind, forgotten inside the walls of Hogwarts. And here he was, in this frozen, perilous place, and if he listened to the rushing water and the crunch of his boots on old snow, he understood that he didn't, in fact, mind at all.
Except for the part about Harry Potter.
"Voldemort isn't here," Draco muttered, his eyes following the path of a hawk in the sky. Harry glanced sideways at him.
"You don't know that. And he could be at Hogwarts. Everything you know could be gone at this instant." Harry's voice quivered as he continued. "That snitch really could have been meant for you, because Voldemort didn't want to kill a Malfoy. Hogwarts could be under attack."
Draco shrugged and scooped another handful of snow into his mouth.
"And you don't even care," Harry said self-righteously. "You don't care that Voldemort will destroy most everything you know. Your teachers: he'll kill Snape."
"Please. You're just upset that you aren't there to save the day, if there's even a day to save. This could all just be an accident, a transfiguration assignment gone horribly wrong."
Harry was quiet for a while. Then, faintly: "I wonder how Ron and Hermione are. Oh, it's nothing you would understand. Worry: it really only befalls those with people to care about, who care about them."
Draco didn't acknowledge him. He didn't really care anymore. It might have bothered him earlier; indeed, he'd been bothered by the fact before, how Harry was so easily surrounded by friends, true friends, and Draco with...well, with Pansy. But the ache in his stomach and the throb of his legs and every physical discomfort he felt made it a trivial detail. What he felt was primitive, and somehow the lack of enlightened thought magnified the qualities of the wild. It made the air seem crisper, the cold seem sharper, and the danger seem more immense and unkind than ever before. And Draco swam in that with primal pleasure.
The trees were growing thicker, so thick that he lost sight of the blue sky above. The snow on the ground grew thinner so that the dirt and dead grass protruded, old and seemingly unwelcome, like the sallow hand of the earth clawing ineffectually at the sun. The world became dim but slightly warmer as the trees insulated them from the nip of the wind.
Harry and Draco slowed their paces and glanced unsurely at each other. Harry released his clutch on his robe and collapsed against a stone. "This is fine, at least for now."
Draco nodded wearily. "It will suffice."
He took a few steps in the direction of the river, which thundered and spewed a frigid mist from only several strides away. Turning his back on Harry, Draco leaned against the bark of a thick trunk, rolling his head back and easing his strained neck muscles. Sinking down, he became conscious of the increasing darkness overhead. The sun was fading away, and the soft pink light of dusk crept across the horizon.
"What are we going to eat?" Draco asked to the wind. He didn't expect an answer, but Harry provided.
"I don't know. Hopefully somebody will find us. We can last a few days without food."
Draco scratched at the dirt with his fingers. "And suppose they don't?"
This time, there was no response. They simply sat there, unmoving, as the rose of the sky turned to a murky purple which gave way to a clear and perfect darkness. Draco stood and moved to exit the small grove.
"Where are you going?"
"None of your damn business, Potter."
He stalked off into the night, out to where the trees weren't so thick and the glassy heavens peered down at him through the sparse braches. The stars – Draco had never seen so many. He hadn't known they all existed. They were scattered across the night sky like tiny shards of glass, so distant and so seamless and so absolutely chilling.
Draco had never looked at the stars in such a way before, like they were the most important thing in the world. It was new, and strange, and boasted of a different aspect of Draco's character, one lured from him by the wild. It was an aspect that was both sinister and gentle and indefinite in its quest for change. It was more esthetic than even he was used to being, but an estheticism that had nothing to do with himself but more with the startling brilliance around him. Or maybe it was incredibly personal; maybe, Draco thought, he pictured himself as part of the arctic. Because how could he see something so great and flawless and not be moved?
Behind him came the crunch of snow and the slight intake of breath. He pivoted his head slowly, calmly. Harry's eyes were raised to the stars, the soft blue light contrasting his dark hair with his pale skin so that he seemed to be drastically polarized, a black and white creature. The angle of his cheekbones gave him a feral if not icy appearance.
Their eyes met in a fury of green and silver. Harry, Draco acknowledged, was the only person around for miles. They were stranded together without anyone to stop them if they fought or heal them if they hurt each other. Also, there was nothing but past memories to fuel their rivalry. They really had no reason to hate each other, at least while they were out here, alone, somewhere west of nothingness.
Their gaze remained locked for several moments longer, a silent acceptance of the situation. When Harry turned his eyes once more to the stars, Draco felt a burn in his spirit that had nothing to do with the land. It was something like bile rising in his throat, and he turned his back on the boy and tramped back to the camp, unsettled and searching for that wonderful tranquility that seemed to have skirted away with a glance.
But as soon as he laid down, his cloak wrapped around his lean body and drawn over his head, sleep decided to descend and nothing, not the stir of a blizzard or the flood of the river could have woken him.
- - -
The world was still the color of pitch when Draco next opened his eyes. He sat there for a moment, attempting to keep all thought at bay. He tried to ignore the rocks digging in his back, the intense cold that pricked even through his uniform; he tried to sleep again. But sleep had retreated to a place as unreachable as the opposite river bank, and Draco sat upright, rubbing his arms furiously around his body, grappling for warmth.
There was hardly an ounce of light in the grove, yet he could see Harry sitting several trees away, curled into himself like a cat, his head tucked under his arms and his legs pressed to his chest. His cloak had shied away from his face and his eyes fluttered. Draco wondered if he was dreaming and what he was dreaming about. He wondered when Harry had fallen asleep, if he had stayed out much longer watching the stars, and then, absently, when he had begun referring to him as 'Harry.'
Draco didn't let himself be puzzled by these thoughts. He'd had too many that would be deemed as unorthodox or against his character for as long as he could remember. To him, that's all they were: offhand musings of the mind, entirely irrelevant and not worth the time to ponder or fret over. But seeing Harry was more than a thought; it was an actual, physical experience. It always had been.
Not to say he enjoyed it. Joy was relative. Joy was something he felt when he pleased his father or received a good mark on an assignment (which he always did.) It was different than optimism. Joy was fleeting. Right now, Draco was...absorbed. He watched Harry, his dark hair falling into his eyes and his shoulders raising slightly with every breath, and an instinctual part of him wanted to reach out and curl around Harry, to finally feel warm again.
Draco told himself it was only an irrelevant thought. He then made the decision to search for food. (In the dark. But he didn't concern himself with that.) Something inside of him didn't want to sleep; a deep, intuitive part of him, the part that truly loves to fly and use magic, the part that thrills at a duel and the part that, afterwards, makes him return to his dorm for a congratulatory whacking off; well, that part was restless.
Draco didn't know much about nature, save for the fact that the sun rose in the east and set in the west. As far as food went, the idea was that he would forage for berries and that his five solid years in Herbology would pay off. He did, however, manage to neglect the fact that the land seemed to be rather barren at the moment.
Could he fish in the river? How would he clean his catch? Draco vaguely remembered a dish served to him where the skin of the salmon was not removed, but he also remembered pushing it around on his plate until he could find an excuse to leave the table. Neither did Draco have much experience fishing – he'd only fished once on a vacation with his family. And even then he hadn't had to clean it.
Despite this, he had to try. It was that or starve. So tentatively Draco prodded around the trees for something to use as a line, before sighing and ripping a thin twine string of stitching from his robes.
The sky was lighter, this time the color of faded denim. The piercing cry of a bird would occasionally traverse the sky, but other than that the world was silent, undemanding, and peaceful.
Draco didn't know how the fishing endeavor would go. His hungry stomach churned as he twisted a small sharp pin from the sole of his boot into the shape of a hook and attached it to the string. Carefully, Draco strode over to the edge of the river, his heart lurching to his throat as he noted, once again, the swiftness of the current. One small misstep....
He peered into the waters and grinned. Hundreds of fish must have been swimming upstream – hundreds. Surely he would catch one.
More than one, he reminded himself. He wasn't just fishing for himself, but for Harry, who still slept quietly in the early morning light. So he dug a small insect from the ground, trapped its twitching form on the hook, and lowered the line.
The fish seemed to evade it. He let it sit there for minutes, then withdrew and stamped further up the bank and lowered it in again. Nothing. His heart was sinking and his stomach was rumbling painfully, but nothing hurt more than the disappointment. This one failure seemed to encompass all others in matters of importance, a fact which he couldn't dispute yet didn't understand.
Eventually, a block of ice that hurried downstream caught the hook and jerked the line out of his hands. Draco nearly wept. The snow was sparkling with sunlight when he turned his back on the lake and retreated into the grove, feeling as if the world itself had betrayed him. He slumped against a tree, his eyes turning to Harry, who had stretched himself out on the hard ground, pine needles embedded in his dark hair, still asleep.
Draco felt more wretched with every passing moment. He didn't know why he'd acquired the strange impulse to find food; he supposed he was proving himself. He'd never had a real opportunity to prove himself before. School, Quidditch – he cared about those things the way a child would. It was his duty, his obligation, but he'd never put any deeper thought into them. He'd never wanted to do them because some innate part of his character told him it was right to. This, this survival – it was so far beyond just himself. It was Harry, and it was their lives, their chance to see everything and anything on the earth, their right to see it. It was their right to see the mountains and the tundra and the stars, and suddenly it became astoundingly important for Draco to protect that.
That was intuitive, primordial survival, Draco figured, watching Harry roll onto his back and sigh a smoky breath into the early morning. His eyes fluttered open and he blinked furiously at the trees above him, confused, then afraid, then rueful with acceptance as his gaze came to rest on Draco.
"I'd hoped it was just a horrible dream," he spoke, his voice rough.
"No," replied Draco. "No, it's incredibly real."
Harry sat up and tugged his cloak back around his shoulders. He glared malevolently at the area around him while he shivered. His hair was in more of a disarray then ever, the dryness of the air causing it to stand above his head like a great black lion's mane. Draco chucked softly, unheard.
"Christ, even this dirt looks appetizing. Have you tried eating dirt yet?"
"Yes, Harry. I've eaten dirt. Go ahead and taste a bit – it's probably better than the meals you're served at home."
Harry glanced up at him, but he wasn't angry. Instead he was intense and even slightly amused. "It probably is," he replied, then prodded at the ground, a slight grin painting his too-pale face. "But seriously – "
"I know. I've been awake for a few hours. I –" Draco paused, then sighed discontentedly. "I tried to fish. It wasn't very successful."
"You tried to fish?"
"I –"
"Draco Malfoy tried to fish?" A low, chime-like laugh echoed through the forest, and Harry's expression was that of intense pleasure. Draco understood why everybody adored him. "I can't believe it. You actually tried to fish."
Irritation boiled in Draco. "I know how to," he replied resentfully. "I am competent."
"Really? Where's breakfast, then?"
In his fury, Draco stood and marched over to the river. His acceptance of Harry had turned to antagonism once again, and angrily he threw himself on the snowy bank and glared at the fish swimming upstream in clusters.
"I should be able to fucking grab one of you. I'm a Malfoy." He plunged his arms into the water. It was cold - not the cold of a simple shower prank or even the cold of gripping a snowball too long. It was glacial, and deep, and so unexpected it made Draco gasp.
But he didn't withdraw, though small shards of ice stung his skin and the waters threatened to drag him away. The fish swam through his fingers, and he let them for the first moments. Then, like a vice, his fingers snapped on one, dug into the slippery flesh and held.
It was ecstasy. He didn't think something as elemental as catching a fish could make him well with pride, but it did. Slowly he removed his arms from the water and, unable to carry the struggling fish much longer, hurried away from the river and hurled it on the ground where it flopped in vain for some time and then stopped, lifeless.
He saw Harry's long shadow moved behind him before he heard the boy clear his throat. Draco turned around and raised his perfect silver eyebrows.
Harry eyed the fish. "You're a complete basket case, Malfoy."
"And you're an ungrateful prat, Potter. This is our food. Our food, yes, don't look so shocked. I wouldn't let you starve."
Harry's lips twitched. "It would be a good idea on your part. If you let me die, you could eat me for food."
Draco had never heard anything so horrendous in his entire life, and his expression showed it. Harry laughed that chiming laugh again, and Draco forgot any pretense of anger.
"Do you know how to start a fire?" Draco asked.
"Yes. It involves matches or a wand. I don't suppose you have either on you? No? Then we'll have to eat it raw."
"Eat it – eat it raw? That's more insane than me eating you."
Harry stepped over to Draco's side and picked up the fish, dangling it by its tale and striding back over to the grove. Draco followed, his eyes on the catch, protective of it. Harry brushed dirt from the top of a flat rock and set the fish down on it.
"Yes, Draco, eat it raw. Did you think it would be smoothly filleted for you? Like you said before, the wild doesn't care if you're hungry. It's not going to provide a wood smoke oven and pairing knives." Harry abruptly sounded quite cross, and he fumed for a moment, staring into the forest. "Gods, this is an ugly place." And then, grabbing a sharp rock from a patch of snow, Harry stabbed into the fish and watched the blood flow. He stripped the skin open, all the while shaking his head irately. It was such a drastic change of disposition that Draco stepped back. "We have to be rescued soon. We can't live here. I have to be back at Hogwarts, I have to know what's happening. I –" he paused, then became solemn. "I so badly wish this hadn't happened."
Draco's appalled mind was still struggling with the idea that Harry thought this place was ugly. It wasn't. It was astounding, and lovely, and wasn't even within Draco to comprehend its vastness. And when Draco heard the last line – "I wish this hadn't happened" – Draco knew it was wrong.
Because for Draco, losing himself in the wilderness was the best thing that ever happened.
Thanks to those who reviewed and gave me advice – I appreciate it, and I'll try and take it to heart with the rest of the story, even if I don't always succeed.