Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter. The title is filched shamelessly from William Blake, whom I adore.
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 Five: Lawless, Winged, and Unconfined
Draco remembered Christmases at the Malfoy manor.
Green and silver decorated the halls, green and silver like frosted bows of an evergreen or the cool coloring of a snake. The only traces of red were the holly berries that adorned the wreaths; to be fair, wreaths were necessary for every door, but compared to the smothering of the other two colors, red wasn't given a fair chance. Lucius was never very fond of it; he said it was too ostentatious. Even at a young age, Draco didn't miss the irony in the statement.
His mother, Draco knew, loved the color red. Wearing it was one of the many liberties she relinquished when she married his father, and even though it was the most materialistic, Draco thought it pained her the most. At first, he was quite impartial to it; when he began his schooling at Hogwarts, he grew to resent the color. It resembled all of the things he couldn't have. Red, to Draco Malfoy, was injustice.
As a child, he woke up on Christmas morning with the urgent expectancy of every other boy expecting a new potions set or a puppy. (Draco never had a puppy. If he had, he would have named it Buck, after Jack London's character in The Call of the Wild. He did, however, have several cats, none of which seemed the least bit interested in him.) The stone stairs would sting his feet as he raced down them with a pure delight only possessed by innocence. The tree that greeted him in the hall was enormous, probably magically enlarged, though Lucius never said. It was his secret; he would hoist Draco onto his lap and whisper in his ear of how he entered the giant's forest and chopped it down just for him, how the spirit of the tree had told him that Draco had been an outstanding boy this year and deserved every gift imaginable. Draco would laugh and squeal in his father's arms and eventually Lucius would release him to fervently tear open the gifts.
In later years, Lucius grew less tolerant of Draco's seasonal anticipation. He thought it had something to do with the escalating situation with the Dark Lord. When Draco was nine, there were fewer gifts; a boy his age didn't need as many to be happy, and Lucius told him to "open them with haste, for we ought not waste time on such matters." Draco understood this in the only way a child can understand: with obedience and respect. He didn't question his father, and he really never would.
Then one Christmas it stopped. Draco was fifteen. The tree, the gifts, the wreaths, even the green and silver decorations were forgotten. Lucius was too involved with Voldemort to bother with such a silly thing as Christmas. That was how Draco was first introduced to the war, to evil, and as trivial an affair a missed holiday may seem compared to famine and genocide and dark marks, it was how Draco interpreted the wrath of the Dark Lord. The war took his father away. The war made his mother cry. The war made the people he was close to distant and hard to reach. And all for what? So everybody could be the same? It was imperialistic, and it was arrogant to believe that they were better, that they, of all people, knew what was right. And the more Draco learned, the more he realized people have been doing this for centuries. It made him sick.
Voldemort once said they were protecting wizards. They were protecting them. To death eaters, Voldemort was righteous.
That Christmas, the Christmas that would define all other Christmases in the future, Draco retreated to his room and locked the door. It had just begun to snow, and the flakes built upon his windowsill. The glass became clouded with frost so that Draco could barely discern the outlines of the steep hill that ran down to meet the black pavement, nor the lights that lined its path. They were impressions only, and nothing could uncloud them; it seemed like what he would see if he gazed into a crystal ball: foggy shapes, a winding road, and a never-ending snowfall.
He didn't know why the Order didn't appeal to him. He didn't agree with his father, of course, but an eleven year old has very little comprehension of true and false; more, he sees what those he respects see. So if Harry Potter were to ask him in third year, in fourth year, and probably through most of fifth year, what his views were, he would have vehemently defended his father, without knowing why. Did he hate Harry? Yes. But like everything else about him, it was an immature hate, driven by not his own beliefs but by the astounding esteem he held his father in. If he was honest with himself, Draco would say he missed Lucius. He missed the man he thought his father was.
Humans were supercilious, and he much preferred the wild.
- - -
At Draco's suggestion, they had cooked more fish and buried them under the snow inside their shelter. The wall was rebuilt, and they packed the spaces between the wood with snow so no errant wind could pass through.
"Eleven years of my life without magic. I never thought I'd be here again," Harry had commented darkly. Draco had admitted to an annoyance at a wandless life, but he didn't feel the absence of magic. Magic was something inside of him, something he'd always known the feel of. Magic sparked through his fingertips, through his skin and bones, and while the conveniences of quick spells were longed for, he never went without the strong sense of wizardry that was an integral part of him.
"I don't know why you didn't just run away," Draco said.
Harry sighed. "I had nowhere to go."
"You're always somewhere."
"For a prat, you're awfully philosophical, Draco."
"For a Gryffindor, you lack balls, Harry."
A bright glint entered Harry's eyes. "Wisdom and strength are not opposites."
They were inside the cabin, the fire separating them, its smoke lured outside through a small hole in the roof. The flames licked at the ceiling and crackled, bouncing off the walls and dancing in jade eyes.
"I remember running away as a child," Draco began, moving a little closer to Harry and grinning from underneath a wall of silver hair. "I would pack a bag and hike into the forest behind our manor without telling my parents where I was. Of course, the house elves knew. I'm sure one even followed me, unbeknownst. But the point was that I felt isolated, important."
"Nothing much has changed," Harry observed.
Draco shrugged. "Here, I'm not important. Well, I never was to begin with. It's an illusion we're born with."
"You're humble."
"No. I just understand. I didn't before."
Harry looked uncomfortable. "When you say that you understand – that you understand that the world is so much bigger than you? You don't acknowledge it. You're pretty reckless for someone who understands the danger."
He smirked. "Maybe I want to be."
"Maybe you're too romantic," Harry retorted, but he was smiling, and it lit up his entire face. Draco grew restless. Harry was stirring something deep and searing inside of him and he needed to move about. He felt giddy and excited and terrified all at once; he felt like he was caught up in a fast-paced waltz, unable to break from the impossibly rapid steps, deliriously entwined in the music. He looked at Harry's face, at his pale, sinewy neck, and he was underwater, drowned by longing and incapable of reaching the surface.
"Let's walk," Draco proposed.
"Walk?"
"You know, that thing you do with your legs."
Harry scoffed. "It's getting dark out. We might not be able to trace our footprints back in the dead of night."
Night was hardly dead. "I'm going. I could freeze or get lost or eaten. If you want that on your conscious, fine. See you later, Potter."
The air was dry. The sun had faded from the horizon but still a tinge of light remained in the sky, like someone had doused a fire and the embers still glowed, faintly, somewhere unfeasibly far away. Draco didn't have to wait long before he heard the light crunch of snow behind him and then, unexpectedly, by his side.
He didn't know where he was going, and they walked a while in silence, allowing the trees to thin out before them. It was impeccably clear, and the half-moon hovered on the eastern horizon, bathing the field of snow in blue light. Barely a breeze stirred. The world was a snapshot, a moment frozen in time, pristine and seemingly unmoving. It was almost as if it was waiting for something, as if the stars were conspiring in hushed, unheard tones above their heads.
Draco stopped. He turned to Harry, whose face was tranquil but whose eyes burned. He looked at Draco, through Draco, and his pulse quickened under the gaze. He was searching for something. Then Harry swallowed thickly, his eyes darkened so they were bruises in his skull, and he sank into the snow.
Draco's stomach churned and he gingerly sat himself beside Harry, watching him peer into the sky as he had the day they arrived. Had it been a week? A month? A year? Two single nights?
He balanced precariously on the edge of sanity as he waited for Harry to speak. His blood was acid in his veins and it hurt to breathe, but he couldn't turn away, couldn't close his eyes. Nothing penetrated the silence; nothing could, until Harry lifted his eyes once more to Draco's, and they stared at each other. Draco was about to break; he had broken, hours ago, when he held Harry from the cold. But there was still something between them, a wall as cold as a glacier and as undefined as the sky. Draco wanted to crack that. He wondered if they even could.
Then, Harry spoke. "I want to hate you." His voice was strong and definite and Draco couldn't look away. He was balancing on the river bank again, and one movement would send him straight into the icy waters. "You don't think it's going to be easy, do you?" Harry asked.
Draco's brows furrowed. "Harry –"
But Harry had broken his gaze and was staring into the distance. "You seem to forget that we're enemies. For a while yesterday, I did too. But you don't want to forget that, do you?"
"I –"
"Because we're not friends. We never will be. I don't want you to think that just because you're the only other person here that that changes anything between us. The first day, I told you not to talk to me, not to even acknowledge me. So don't."
Draco gulped down the acrid flavor in the back of his throat. "Then why did you follow me?" The other boy paled and bit his lip. Harry was nervous now, terrified; it was the same expression Draco wore when Harry turned his wand on him. "What are you so afraid of? Look around you! Nobody is here. They can't see us. If we get back to Hogwarts, you can return to your role as Boy Hero and never think of me again – but not yet." Draco laughed a sharp, bitter laugh. "Stop pretending that you have something to live up to. You don't. You can't do anything here but survive. Why do I scare you? Is it because I left Hogwarts so easily behind? Is it because I'm in lo –"
"It's because I can't hate you, Draco!" he whispered fiercely. His sentence resonated through the air and slapped Draco's frozen cheeks.
Draco chuckled slightly in dark amusement. It was the only way to release the tension that was spilling over. It was choked and exasperated, and Harry glared at him furiously. "What do you really want?" He became cross, but before his could speak, Draco cut him off. "Not when you get back to Hogwarts. I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about right now, here, this instant. Because that's all there is. So answer me: what do you want?"
The world held its breath for them.
There was a crackle in the sky and a stream of color ripped through the stars. Both Harry and Draco whipped their heads towards the bright bands of light. Red, green, yellow – they waved in the sky like iridescent curtains. There was the faintest sound of rustling, as if someone was stepping on dead leaves in the distance. The color materialized out of nowhere and was the most amazing thing Draco had ever seen, the most magical sensation he'd ever experienced. The colors were ethereal. They were conjured from the bowels of the sky and shot across the clearing, illuminating everything. It was the bright, crackling hand of God brushing over the land. It was the vibrant, multihued flag of the arctic waving a rich salute. It was the stunning breath of space and space beyond; it was a glimpse into another world. It was breathtaking.
Draco felt something soft on his shoulder, and he tore his gaze away from the northern lights, the aurora. Harry rested his hand on Draco and was watching him like it was all that mattered. The lights slashed through Draco's insides; a bright, caustic feeling gripped his throat and chest. Suddenly, there was nothing keeping him from Harry.
Harry was serious and exposed. The cold evaporated; they were overcome by an indescribable warmth. He stared at Draco for the longest time. Draco tilted his head closer to Harry's. The aurora danced wildly in his eyes and the lenses of his glasses; Draco watched it, and he watched Harry, who gasped ever so faintly, a look of unguarded fear – and ecstasy – painting his features.
Draco didn't close his eyes when their lips met, wet with saliva and hot, so hot. He let them flutter open as Harry relaxed under his open mouth, their tongues brushing lightly. Harry tasted of new snow and something like cinnamon.
Draco's gloved hand rested on Harry's thigh and he scooted in closer. It was euphoria. He was kissing Harry and something inside of him flared and burned, and he didn't think of anything else except that, and how it felt. How Harry felt. His lips were full and trembling and the inside of his mouth was sweet and warm and wet, and his tongue was soft. His cheeks flushed and they both gasped for air, rushing back to each other because the cold stung them. The kiss was fumbling and sloppy and far from graceful, but it was severe; the kiss was Harry, and it was perfect.
The aurora waved its banner and eventually rose back into the heavens, but Harry and Draco, alone with the stars, were unstoppable.
Thank you, reviewers, especially Miss Lesley, who took the time to give survival suggestions I desperately needed. I'm pretty much writing blindly here; I don't know a great deal about wilderness. (Obviously.) Oh, and anybody who relates a certain part of this chapter to modern politics gets a cookie. Extra points if you can find the quote from the DNC!