Title: Thaw
Pairing:
Harry/Draco
Rating: PG
Summary: Draco remembers
a cold past and realises that there's a future stretching out ahead
of him.
Dedication:
astraargentea
as an early Xmas gift. I know it's not exactly Christmassy, sweetie,
but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway.
A/N: Also written for
thepimpcane's
Christmas Challenge 2004, Challenge 6: Warmth.
He remembers the cold, sharp, biting stones of the Manor dungeons; he remembers them well, he doesn't think he'll ever forget.
He doesn't think he can forget the way the chill crept through the cracks, squeezing out any warmth, crawling up his arms, legs, until he couldn't feel his toes or fingers. He doesn't think he can forget the way that every breath felt like he was breathing knifes, shards of broken glass, clinking and cluttering through his mouth and nostrils, down his throat to tear at his lungs. He doesn't think he can forget the unmerciful claws of metal, frosted over, frozen, digging into his wrist, searing his skin with their absence of heat, tearing through his mind, leaving him numb with cold - lost, forgotten and dying.
He won't ever forget the way it felt to think that no one would care whether he lived or died - he'd never forget the way it felt to think that no one would come for him.
He felt like he'd gone cold then - both body and soul - and that he'd never warm up again.
But then there's this all invading heat, slowly seeping though his haze, shielding him for the cold, wrapping him in light, warmth, safety that all came in the form of a cloak. And then there were hands - filled with life and care and tenderness - shakily prying his fingers apart, the tingle of a spell, spoken in a determined, horrified voice, slowly spreading over his wrists, prying away the unflinching metal - and then merciful darkness.
Since then, he hasn't spoken a word - he hasn't been able to find the words, as if he never really thawed inside, and so he had nothing to say.
The fire gently caressing his face, trailing tendrils of warmth over his sharp, distinguished features like a particularly coy virgin, fluttering and flittering, shy fingers tracing his eyes, cheeks, lips. The room isn't bright, but it's got a particular glow to it, lit by the fire and the Christmas tree in the corner. He's sitting on soft carpet, arms around legs, still, grey eyes staring into the dancing flames, watching the subtle shifts, shades and shadows interplay with one another.
Someone appears at his side, wrapping a cloak around his thin shoulders, arranging it so that it covered his whole foetal self, from nervously twitching fingers, clenched tight into a fist to his curled toes. The hand then moves to tuck some stray blond strands of hair back behind his ears before the man settles down next to him.
"Alright there, Draco?" Even his voice is honey-warm, smooth and reassuring.
He nods, not taking his eyes away from the fireplace.
A mug of hot chocolate is the next thing that appears, slipped quietly into his hands, marshmallows bubbling and floating, melding, melting into a layer of sweet stickiness on top of the rich chocolate, and a plate of chocolate chip cookies, slightly distorted in shape (homemade) is placed in front of him.
He can feel those bright, impossibly green eyes staring at him and, after a while, he turns his head slightly, meeting the gaze, cocking his head inquisitively. Harry just smiles, shaking his head.
Nothing, he answers silently to the unasked question. Just watching.
He looks at Harry - really looks - and thinks back. It was Harry that had come for him. It had been Harry that had taken him into his home, that continued to look after him even though it had been months since he'd said anything at all. Harry who had warmed him.
"What?" Harry asks quietly.
He shakes his head. Nothing, the action echoes. Just watching.
Harry lets out a light laugh, hand coming up to curl comfortingly at the base of his neck, rubbing soothing circles there. "Fair enough."
He leans into the touch, nuzzling the offered extra source of warmth, eyes slipping closed as Harry continues to pet him softly, beginning to tell him, in that soft lyrical voice of his, a story.
He creeps a little closer until he's moulded against Harry's side, eyes still closed, letting Harry's voice wash over him.
And he feels the cold memories recede, leaving behind a sensation of thawing, a slow, peaceful, comforting warmth, spreading from his side - where it's leaning against Harry - through his body, into his fingers, toes, heart and soul.
"Thank you," he whispers softly, voice rough from disuse.
Harry's voice falters, his breath catches then he resumes his speech as if uninterrupted, with only a quick, "it's alright" to let Draco know he's been heard - and understood.
No, he doesn't think he'll ever forget the cold - knows that he can't - but it's a distant memory now, pushed back by the warmth of the present.
He knows he'll never forget the cold, but it doesn't matter now. He knows he'll never forget the cold, and that's not so bad; it reminds him how precious this warmth he has is. He knows he'll never forget the cold, but he'll keep it there, so that he can compare it with this warmth - and make him treasure it even more.
His past and his future, cold and warm - one left behind him, the other stretching out in front of him, paving the way for a new life, lined with the warmth of companionship and comfort.