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, but eventually a choice must be made. Slash.
Chapter Four: Armed in Gold
The storm had passed.
Harry still clutched Draco. Whether he was even aware of the storm's end or whether he was lost in a storm of his own was entirely Draco's guess. But he didn't let go, and Draco didn't push him away.
Something had changed. For the thousandth time since they arrived in this foreign land, Draco knew he was different, knew the majority of his old life was displaced. And now there was no denying that somewhere along the line, Harry had begun to change as well. It was slow, and of course Draco wouldn't ask him to forget his friends or his fears. Maybe that didn't matter.
Draco's stomach was in a knot. He couldn't seem to relax, not with Harry so close, not with the upsetting sensations warring in him. He didn't want to analyze anything. How could he even put a name to what he was feeling? How could he possibly consider the meaning behind the strange caustic excitement that wouldn't fade?
Harry shifted slightly and raised his head. His glance at Draco stopped his breath and any thought he possessed. Their faces were so close together that he could see himself in Harry's thick glasses.
"Thank you," he whispered, a blush creeping upon his cheeks. Draco felt himself sit stiffly. He felt odd; his hands and nose and lips felt too big, his hair felt too long, and his position felt too awkward. He was aware of everything, every part of his body and every slight move that Harry made.
"I – I didn't want to have to eat you if you froze."
Harry paused, then laughed with real, true humor. Then, embarrassedly, he disentangled himself from Draco's arms and retrieved his cloak from the wall. The cold took Harry's place and Draco shivered, hard, noting an even more chilling emptiness that choked him and made his heart pang. Attempting to distract the void, Draco peered outside through a small crack, noting that night had fallen; he wondered idly who had first deemed that night fell. To Draco, the night seemed to be eternal and ever-present, and it was the daylight that intruded upon the dark solitude.
"Harry, do you think –" Draco quieted. Harry was curled into a tight ball in the corner, his head resting on his cloak which rested on a pile of snow. His eyes were shut tightly against whatever demons would soon enter his sleep.
Draco never had any trouble sleeping. In fact, he adored it – it was the only time in his life when he could escape. He had never been troubled by nightmares, had never crouched under his green satin sheets until dawn, waiting for monsters to retreat. He simply slept, undisturbed and unwanting, until the sun gently prodded him into wakefulness. Draco also never dreamed. As he watched the night sky, which appeared as if someone had punched a thousand holes in black canvass and let the ethereal light shine through, he figured he didn't need to dream. His reality was good enough.
Harry was different. Draco heard Harry had nightmares – terrible ones, ones that involved Voldemort and Death Eaters and so many horrors he'd seen that Draco would never wish to be partial to. He watched Harry turn over, his eyebrows furrowed in an expression of anxiety, and suddenly Draco was immensely uncomfortable. He thought that Harry's dreams were ripping through the fragile bond of consciousness, clawing at Draco, making him afraid for all the wrong reasons. And he didn't want that. Not for him, and not for Harry; so Draco did the only thing he knew how to do. He sat down next to Harry and gently moved the other boy's hand so it rested lightly atop Draco's. He didn't know what that was supposed to accomplish; maybe it would calm Harry, maybe it would chase away his fear; maybe it wouldn't help at all. But that soft contact was enough to make Draco forget that he was confused; it took the edge off the burning in his heart. It was enough to make Draco forget that he could be, possibly but not entirely for certain, completely infatuated.
He didn't look at Harry before he fell asleep. That would ruin the illusion – something Draco didn't usually give into. He wasn't whimsical, just idealistic. Perhaps the world made an exception for those who were lost. He hoped so. He hoped intensely that if the world let him pretend, just this once, that maybe Harry could be, possibly but not entirely for certain, completely infatuated as well – at least for this night – he wouldn't ask for anything ever again.
Draco fell asleep imagining that wonderful colors danced in the sky above his closed eyes.
- - -
His stomach spasmed in the night. That was the only recollection he had of his slumber; that, and a divine, fluttery emotion that had surfaced, leaving the corners of his mouth twitched in a semblance of a smile. When he opened his eyes, though, he was confused. It was bright, too bright to be in the shelter, and colder and more windy than the wooden walls would have allowed. That's when he noticed Harry, who was shuffling around beside him. Draco sat up, alarmed. One of the walls was missing.
Harry saw Draco move and he smiled tentatively. "We were snowed in on the other side, so I removed some of the branches. We need to find food," he softly said. His hair was damp with snow and the circles under his eyes were dark, but the irises themselves were alive with a vividness that made Draco flushed and nervous. He briefly wondered if Harry remembered Draco holding his hand the previous night; then, with anxiety, he realized Harry had been the first to awake and surely was made aware. More of a blush rose to Draco's cheeks and he turned around, pretending to search for something on the other side of the cabin.
His stomach ached terribly. It gnawed at him like a feral creature, biting and snarling and demanding. It was a petulant child. And no matter how Draco tried to think of more pleasant things, the impending need for food was overpowering, and he gave into it. His embarrassment was almost forgotten.
Had he realized, then, what is so fundamental about human nature? Did it even register in Draco's mind that he was subject to the most primitive of obstacles? Could he even begin to fathom that he was what poets and artists and intellectuals had raved about for centuries? Draco watched the morning sun strike the earth at a deep angle, its rays casting the trees in long shadows. Some part of him knew, knew that his inherent, most primal nature was warring with his years of learned culture and sophistication. Somewhere, he acknowledged that only one force could push down his immediate lust and withdraw a rawness to his spirit; that he was progressively more attracted to Harry while at the same time he was growing a fondness for the land and the wonderful, visceral happiness of only being captivated by his need for the essentials of life. That brought freedom. And he knew a time would come when these two parties would conflict. But not now. Now, there was Harry, and himself, and the lonely planet.
"We can go fishing again, Draco. You can teach me how you caught that fish. I must admit, I was pretty impressed."
Draco grinned a cocky, arrogant grin. "It's not the same as catching the snitch, you know." At the mention of this, Harry's eyes grew darker. Draco shrugged it off and let Harry follow him to the river. "I don't even remember what I did," he admitted. "I was angry – I just sort of snapped on it with my hands. But you have to hold on tightly. The fish are huge, and they put up a fight."
"Of course they do. You're clawing the life out of them," Harry said.
Draco smirked and watched Harry lay down on the bank and shove his hands into the water. His face contorted as the icy waters stung his flesh, but he was persistent. The first few times he tried to grab one he was unsuccessful and his brows furrowed in frustration, and Draco observed his failure as if it was he, in fact, who had failed. He wanted Harry to succeed, as if that would fill some vacant need in him.
Finally Harry lurched back from the river, hugging a salmon. It slipped from his arms and struggled on the snow, and it would have dropped back into the water had Draco not lunged to the ground and pushed it away. "Thanks," Harry muttered.
Draco's robed arm brushed Harry's cloak, yet he still shivered. Even when he turned around, he felt exactly where Harry was. When he closed his eyes, he never stopped seeing the deep emerald pools bearing into his own. It was the closest thing to obsession Draco had ever experienced.
The fish's mouth gaped a few times, then fell still. "I don't know if I can eat it raw again, Harry. It was just too disgusting."
Harry sighed. "I've been thinking about that. It's so wet everywhere, but there are a few dry, dead leaves and pieces of wood. If I used the lens of my glasses against the sun, then we might be able to, conceivably, start a fire." At Draco's eager expression, Harry hurriedly explained, "But I've never done it before, and I have no idea if it would work, or if it would just smoke a lot."
"It's worth a try." Draco stood.
"Where do you think you're going?" Draco turned around, puzzled. Harry signaled toward the river. "I'm starving. I'm going to eat this entire fish, head, bones and tail." He smiled charmingly, but Draco saw his complexion was pale and he was trembling ever so slightly. There was an entrenched look of hunger in his face, in the strained muscles of his jaw.
"Go back to the grove and try and start a fire," he replied. Shakily Harry stood. As he brushed past Draco, their eyes met. There was a knowing insight to Harry's; an insecure passion that nevertheless met Draco's severe gaze with ferocity. Draco trembled.
Catching a fish took him longer this time. When he did, and when Harry was out of sight, Draco tossed it on the ground and pissed behind a tree.
It was all very well that he cocked up his feelings to inevitability, but they still troubled him. Draco turned his eyes to the horizon. The sun was inching higher in the sky. It was a perfect day; you wouldn't believe there had ever been a blizzard if you'd just woken up. That was the way the arctic was. All of the ugliness, all of the malice, was buried with each new snowfall, forgotten under a blanket of white. Draco loved that. It was what made everything seem so perfect, so enchanting, and so very untouchable. The world went on, the song never died, the prayer never ended. It simply...changed.
Harry was crouched over a pile of leaves when Draco returned. His glasses were in his hands, and a bright, small dot of light burnt through the foliage. Draco tossed his fish next to Harry's and sat opposite him. There were a few branches lain beside him to build up the fire.
"It's just smoking, like I said. I can't figure out how to make it flame," Harry said, his voice upset and near a whimper. It was clear he was almost ready to give up, and not just on the fire. He looked like he wanted nothing more than to lay in the snow, close his eyes, and never wake up.
Draco's stomach lurched and he grabbed the glasses from Harry. Without them, he looked vulnerable, open for attack. Draco didn't like that. It invaded his belief that Harry was strong, because even if he was scared, he was facing it, and wasn't that what true courage was?
Draco angled the sun so the beam hit the lower leaves. Harry set some thin twigs in a pyramid shape around the pile. And they waited. It smoked, and most of the leaves had already turned to ash, and still a flame evaded them. Harry bit his lip and clenched his eyes shut. After endless minutes and after his arm had cramped, Draco sighed and handed the glasses back to Harry, who put them on and watched the ash sullenly.
"Just eat it, Draco. It's been two nights. We can't give up now, just because we don't want to taste raw fish again."
Draco eyed the fish and his mouth tightened in a thin line. "I don't see the point of eating them without a fire. Because we have to figure out how to build a fire eventually, and this should be our motivation."
Harry turned tired eyes to Draco. "Do you really think we'll be here for that much longer? Do you really think that nobody will come?"
It was then that Draco realized something about Harry, and, in turn, about himself. Harry always had hope. He had hope that the world could be better, that people were inherently decent, and that good would always triumph over evil. He believed that somebody would find us, in part because people had always come through for him before, and partly because he wanted to. He wanted to go home, to get back to Hogwarts and curl next to the fire of the plush Gryffindor common room. He had friends; he had reasons to return. And Draco didn't. He could stay here forever.
"I think we need to prepare for if they don't find us," he responded. His stomach twitched in hunger.
"Then we can't stop trying," Harry decided, and built the leaves and twigs back up.
They were half inside the shelter, and large branches lay all around them. Draco snapped some of these in half and made a small barricade against the wind. He also used his body to brake the gale.
He stared up at the sun in a reverent, deferential way. They were entirely at its mercy. This, Draco thought, must be how humans had felt thousands of years ago when they first began to rub two sticks together. A hopeful, expectant silence settled over the area. Draco watched Harry hold the beam to the leaves, which withered with ash but did not catch. To the sky he sent a silent plea – no, not a plea. Nothing here was merciful. It was more a resignation, a wave of defeat but not displeasure, a complete surrendering. If anyone had ever spoken of a God, Draco felt sure this was he – the commanding voice of the wind, the deep blue glaciers, and the sun, which held reigns over their lives in such a tight, patriarchal, reserved manner that he couldn't help but feel privileged to have been allowed to live this long already.
Harry was holding his breath, intent on the leaves and brush. Draco held his breath as well and peered closely at the bright spot of heat. Sweat formed on his brow and his stomach once again panged, but his mind was resolute: they had to make this happen. Then, impossibly, there was a flicker. He gasped. The flicker spread to the other leaves until it was a flame, no larger than a candle's and in serious danger of extinguishing in the blink of an eye. Harry anxiously caught alight some underbrush and more leaves and pine needles and it grew more substantial. The twigs even caught. Fire! Draco released his breath and hastily placed more small branches on top of it until it was large and hot enough to catch alight the larger pieces of wood.
The wild smile that painted Harry's features made Draco want to laugh and shout and dance around the forest. Instead, though, he dared to rest his hand on Harry's knee and grin back. "Well done, Harry."
Their gaze lasted longer than it should have without words. But Draco wanted more. Oh, he wanted so much more, so much that he couldn't name and didn't even know the words for. Whatever it was, though, it would have to wait.
Harry and Draco ate well that morning. In fact, Draco didn't think anything had ever tasted so wonderful. He wasn't full; he really didn't think he would ever be again, but it was a far cry from the savage need for food.
After they tossed the remains to the trees, they lay back against the snow. They decided to keep the fire alive for as long as possible; it had been too difficult to ignite, and something about this accomplishment begged to be sustained.
"It's not so horrible, I suppose," admitted Harry. Even after the previous night, which Harry had neglected to mention entirely, they still remained physically distant. It wasn't that Draco didn't want to touch Harry again; he just needed permission. It was silly that in such a lawless place, the barrier of human restraint proved substantial enough to keep them apart.
"It's definitely better than potions," he continued. "But the question still nags: why are we here? Who sent us? And when, if ever, will we return?"
Draco chewed on a chunk of ice. "I don't know. For some reason, not knowing doesn't bother me. This is an...adventure."
"I'm sick of adventure."
Draco propped himself up on his elbow and grinned sympathetically. "I'm sorry."
Harry's eyes blazed. "I would never have thought."
"What?"
"I would never have imagined you would apologize to me."
"Not for years of insults! Those you have to suck up, Potter. Just for –"
"I know. And thank you."
Harry sunk back into the snow and smiled at the sky. It had to be noon. "Gods, what do we do here?"
"Nothing. Isn't it glorious?"
"Cold. Silent. Lonely. But yes, in its own way it's glorious, Draco."
He didn't think Harry was talking about the arctic. His chest burned again, and he felt like he couldn't breathe. To think that maybe – it would be too perfect. But then again, so was all of this.