Title: More Than Meant To Be
Author/Artist: DangerouslyHazle
Pairing: H/D
Rating: R (for future content)
Chapter Summary: Harry recaps his summer and faces a decision. Draco fights his feelings and moves on.
Disclaimer: Nearly everything belongs to JK Rowling, I can take credit only for the story line and a few OCs.
Possible Spoilers: Any of the books, potentially.
Warnings: m/m slash
__________________________________________________
Chapter one: Looking Back
Harry stood, bare but for a pair of boxer-briefs, in front of the mirror. He surveyed his reflection with an expression of distaste.
That long, curved one, there... An enchanted sword. That short, angled one: a curse deflected and warped by a shield. That small pink dot: a poisoned goblin dart. A splayed pattern of still-pink branches: a cat-o- nine-tails made of fire.
There were scars nearly everywhere, from weapons and spells galore.
Harry crossed his arms over his scarred, toned chest, and contemplated his summer.
After the battle – which Harry refused to relive just then – he'd woken here, at the Dursley's, in Dudley's room. His trunk had been by the bed in the immaculate room, but he hadn't touched the thing. After a moment of disorientation, Harry had wandered downstairs in a daze, only to be greeted by an equally clean, though not as unoccupied, house. His aunt Petunia was cleaning already gleaning kitchen counters when he'd found her.
His uncle Vernon and Dudley were away looking at colleges, and she didn't know what those people were thinking, leaving an injured boy in her care, and who knew when he would have woken up, and how could they be so sure that these "spells" of theirs would make sure he didn't....
And... Was he alright?
The look on her face was torn between concern, confusion, and frustration. She looked nearly in tears. Harry felt detached and lost. The last thing he remembered before waking... his mind shut off the train of thought, and he felt his face shift from vacant to stonily impassive. He told his aunt that he was as fine as could be expected, for someone who'd nearly died saving the world. Petunia looked as if she was trying to figure out if he was serious or not... and was extremely worried that he was telling the truth.
He'd thanked her, more gently, and asked if she needed help with anything. He was almost amused by her shock at not having to issue orders for once. It was probably the only thing that made her decline his offer. Even better, she'd told him to help himself to the food in the kitchen.
His uncle and cousin hadn't come back, and there had been no telephone calls or letters from them. Petunia's obsessive cleaning belied her emphatic statements that there was nothing wrong, but there was nothing Harry could do about any of it.
He spent his early days reading meaningless fiction and going through the motions of living. He was particularly fond of science-fiction (the emphasis on science, on off-world adventure, was appealing). He went on short walks around the neighborhood, ignoring the new occupants of Mrs. Figg's house, and sat on the porch to get fresh air. In short, he'd sought distractions.
But then this had come, breaking into his month-long reverie...
Finally, a part of him said.
NO, said another.
Harry uncrossed his arms, picked up the object of discomfort from his bed, and – ignoring both voices – opened the letter that had been delivered by a chocolate brown owl earlier that morning (it had reminded him sharply of Hedwig – NO, a voice came again).
The letter was short, simple, and achingly familiar. The heading sent a wave of sorrowpainwistfullness through what heart he still felt:
HOGWARTS SCHOOL
of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
It was his seventh year list, of course. And the large parcel beside his bed, delivered just a few hours after the letter, would most likely contain the books listed on the letter he held in his hand. How convenient.
Harry looked up from the letter, at his reflection once more. His emerald gaze rested on his reflection's forehead, and he felt his heart go icy. The same as it had every time he looked in a mirror since he'd woken up in his aunt's (he no longer thought of it as the Dursley's) house. His lightning bolt of a scar, once thin yet vivid and embarrassingly conspicuous, seemed to be healing.
Yes, healing. It was even thinner, and its color now closer to that of his natural skin color...
The ice around his heart was born of the scary thoughts that made him wake up sweaty and panting at night. It was remembrance, mostly. But why was the healing scar a bad thing? he asked himself. Surely it should be a reassurance...
A tear slid down Harry's cheek. He refused to look the reason in the eye, but it was as clear as his reflection was: the scar, the war, the prophecy, the responsibility, the certainty... It was who he was. As many times as he'd resented the burdens, as he'd wished that he could be like other – normal – people, Harry had the entire package embedded into his identity when he was eleven years old and given a new life. Now that the prophecy was fulfilled, the war ended, and the scar fading, there were very few pieces that this black-haired, green-eyed boy could find of himself. He was empty, and falling apart at the seams.
Now they wanted him back at school. There was even a note congratulating him on being officially of-age. Harry's brow knit... He supposed his birthday might have passed. It had been about a month since he'd woken here, plus maybe a month of that final battle, after the rushed completion of the last school year...
Might as well be July, then. He took a breath, and let it out slowly.
He was still unwilling to face his past, and even more unwilling to face his unguided future, but what else did he have to do? He couldn't very well stay here, on his aunt's goodwill. Especially when she displayed the very feelings he was ignoring in himself: a desire not to remember, not to care, not to think too much. He'd have to get an apartment, a job... he'd have to be a part of society again, if only the Muggle one.
His decision was simple, really. Return to his wizard life, or return to his Muggle one.
A matter of choosing which held more good, or less bad, things for him...
The lesser of two evils (his mind shied from that word).
With his "ultimate" goal now behind him – and it was still so hard to – there was nothing to guide him in this decision.
*******
Draco Malfoy sat behind the desk in the main study in Malfoy Manor, tapping the feathery end of his quill against his lips.
He read over the seventh year list again, wondering if he'd be going back to school. It was logical, he supposed, to finish the final year of education. It would be easier to be apprenticed, or to train for a ministry job... Not that he knew what the hell he wanted to do with his life. The only thing he was certain of was that he would not simply sit and live off his inheritance, despite its limitless proportions.
But school was not necessary, really. Only logical, and a decent way to explore possibilities for the future, as pointless a concept as "future" had become.
Draco ignored the unease in his heart, just as he ignored the cause of his hesitation to attend his final year at Hogwarts; deep down, he dreaded seeing those decimated grounds and halls, and the equally decimated population. An empty, battle-scarred school...
"Draco, darling, there you are!" his mother exclaimed, entering the study dressed in a white silk nightgown. "And at what an hour. Studying, are you?" She asked fondly, her hands going to her slim hips, and her pale, blonde-framed face cocking to one side as she smiled at him.
Despite his less-than-chipper thoughts, Draco smiled softly back. "I guess you could say that, mother. You should be sleeping."
"So should you, dear. It's nearly dawn." Narcissa Malfoy sighed. "I think I'll watch the sunset..." And she wandered off, back the way she'd come, followed by the house elf now on duty to look after her.
Draco had rejected the idea of medical treatment out of hand. His mother was simply dealing with the past in her own way, he knew. There was no reason to put her in St. Mungos, not when she was no harm to anyone. There weren't even any private practitioners he trusted. Even though he couldn't be in the manor all the time, he felt better knowing she was safe at home. Here there was loyal staff and an infusion of generations of familial familiarity (a term he enjoyed musing over).
The quill came away from his mouth, and he twirled it, staring through the black and white pattern on the feather. At least she never asked about Lucious anymore, or the Death Eaters, or the Dark Lord...
Apparently his facial expressions conveyed his feelings even to the mentally unstable (Not insane, a voice vehemently interjected). He disliked remembering the battle, especially his part in it. He had refused to choose sides, but had been at Hogwarts when the attack came. Despite his adamant refusal to go against his family, Draco had ended up at the makeshift infirmary of the Order's side. He consoled his guilt – for Malfoy loyalty was a hard-learned lesson – by telling himself that the lives he'd saved were not going back into battle. He hadn't been helping any side, really...
Familiar anger bubbled up. Damned, ignorant, BLINDLY following Death Eaters! Couldn't they see that their efforts were in vain? And most of them called themselves Slytherins! How intelligent was following a thing that used and abused you? How ambitious was it to fight another's battle? How...
Snap.
Draco glared at the now-broken quill. Calm down, he told himself. Sighing gustily, he dropped the pieces to run a hand through his long blonde hair. The absent gesture was enough to turn his mind to his changed image. He was sure no one would recognize him now, unless it was for his striking resemblance to his mother. Especially with his hair past his shoulders. He allowed himself a small smile of triumph: Barring the silver tone to his ice-blue eyes (lucius's had been grey), he looked nothing like his father. It was a small thing, admittedly, but it was easier to forget the bastard when reminders of him weren't present in the mirror.
Maybe if there was no physical similarities, there would be nothing else... Draco would not become his father. He swallowed, and mentally swore. So much for changing to a less troubling mental topic.
It was all because of this damned letter! Draco glared at the offending object. With decisiveness that had nothing to do with logic, thought, or plan, He squashed the parchment into as small a ball as he could manage, and dropped it into his wastebasket. He took his wand from his desk drawer, and muttered a spell. The letter disappeared.
With a sigh, Draco took out a sheet of blank parchment – and an unbroken quill – and began a letter to the department of employment within the ministry. He detailed what he was looking for in a job, along with his stronger academic points, and his sadly brief list of references and previous job experience.
After finishing the letter, addressing it and stamping it, he called a servant to send it on its way. As an afterthought, he sent a second to see about completing his education by mail or tutor... it wouldn't have the same weight as a certificate of completion from Hogwarts had – nor NEWT scores, but perhaps he could take those independently as well – but it was better than the six years he currently held. OWL scores only went so far.
Now that he was on his path, Draco once again had something to the distract him from the emptiness inside of him. The feeling was born of having lost his family, associates, and social standing. Perhaps, too, born of having had his life complete turned on its head. That would do it, he supposed.
Once he'd settle his affairs, cleaning himself of his father and the Dark business their family name had fallen into (the guilt-causing work at the Hogwart's infirmary had helped greatly, proving that he hadn't been involved in the attack), he'd mainly concerned himself with making his mother comfortable. And even that had become a weak distraction.
Hopefully renewing his education and getting employment of some sort would provide something to create a new self from. Then he wouldn't have to keep hiding from who he used to be...
Or the lack of person he currently was.
_____________________________________________________
Author Note~
I haven't got a beta, FYI, so I apologize for my errors (correcting one's own work can only catch so many, I know). Anyone who's good with editing, please feel free to let me know if you'd like the position (comes with high esteem, I tell you!) on this story.
Also, please keep in mind that this is my first fic (in case you don't like it), and I'm probably going to be slow (in case you do).
Reviews are much appreciated. Especially flames, I might add... Dunno why, by getting yelled at is so exhilarating (. Plus it gives me an excuse to stalk around and complain about stuff. That's fun.
Update: Fixed my freudian slip (sheesh) after banging my head repeatedly on my desk.
Draco's mother is now correctly named Narcissa... (*blush* one of my fave pairings is Narcissa/Lily... sorry!)
And I got a beta offer from one Sailor Grape, so hopefully any future errors are greatly reduced.
Update #2: ARGH. Why do SOME tabs show up when I upload a document, but not others?! I had to go and add a line between paragraphs to make it show up! Why didn't someone tell me this chapter started out with one big CHUNK of sentences! It was supposed to be about ten different paragraphs. It was horrible! And yet all anyone complained about was the damned name mix-up. *mutter*
Author/Artist: DangerouslyHazle
Pairing: H/D
Rating: R (for future content)
Chapter Summary: Harry recaps his summer and faces a decision. Draco fights his feelings and moves on.
Disclaimer: Nearly everything belongs to JK Rowling, I can take credit only for the story line and a few OCs.
Possible Spoilers: Any of the books, potentially.
Warnings: m/m slash
__________________________________________________
Chapter one: Looking Back
Harry stood, bare but for a pair of boxer-briefs, in front of the mirror. He surveyed his reflection with an expression of distaste.
That long, curved one, there... An enchanted sword. That short, angled one: a curse deflected and warped by a shield. That small pink dot: a poisoned goblin dart. A splayed pattern of still-pink branches: a cat-o- nine-tails made of fire.
There were scars nearly everywhere, from weapons and spells galore.
Harry crossed his arms over his scarred, toned chest, and contemplated his summer.
After the battle – which Harry refused to relive just then – he'd woken here, at the Dursley's, in Dudley's room. His trunk had been by the bed in the immaculate room, but he hadn't touched the thing. After a moment of disorientation, Harry had wandered downstairs in a daze, only to be greeted by an equally clean, though not as unoccupied, house. His aunt Petunia was cleaning already gleaning kitchen counters when he'd found her.
His uncle Vernon and Dudley were away looking at colleges, and she didn't know what those people were thinking, leaving an injured boy in her care, and who knew when he would have woken up, and how could they be so sure that these "spells" of theirs would make sure he didn't....
And... Was he alright?
The look on her face was torn between concern, confusion, and frustration. She looked nearly in tears. Harry felt detached and lost. The last thing he remembered before waking... his mind shut off the train of thought, and he felt his face shift from vacant to stonily impassive. He told his aunt that he was as fine as could be expected, for someone who'd nearly died saving the world. Petunia looked as if she was trying to figure out if he was serious or not... and was extremely worried that he was telling the truth.
He'd thanked her, more gently, and asked if she needed help with anything. He was almost amused by her shock at not having to issue orders for once. It was probably the only thing that made her decline his offer. Even better, she'd told him to help himself to the food in the kitchen.
His uncle and cousin hadn't come back, and there had been no telephone calls or letters from them. Petunia's obsessive cleaning belied her emphatic statements that there was nothing wrong, but there was nothing Harry could do about any of it.
He spent his early days reading meaningless fiction and going through the motions of living. He was particularly fond of science-fiction (the emphasis on science, on off-world adventure, was appealing). He went on short walks around the neighborhood, ignoring the new occupants of Mrs. Figg's house, and sat on the porch to get fresh air. In short, he'd sought distractions.
But then this had come, breaking into his month-long reverie...
Finally, a part of him said.
NO, said another.
Harry uncrossed his arms, picked up the object of discomfort from his bed, and – ignoring both voices – opened the letter that had been delivered by a chocolate brown owl earlier that morning (it had reminded him sharply of Hedwig – NO, a voice came again).
The letter was short, simple, and achingly familiar. The heading sent a wave of sorrowpainwistfullness through what heart he still felt:
HOGWARTS SCHOOL
of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
It was his seventh year list, of course. And the large parcel beside his bed, delivered just a few hours after the letter, would most likely contain the books listed on the letter he held in his hand. How convenient.
Harry looked up from the letter, at his reflection once more. His emerald gaze rested on his reflection's forehead, and he felt his heart go icy. The same as it had every time he looked in a mirror since he'd woken up in his aunt's (he no longer thought of it as the Dursley's) house. His lightning bolt of a scar, once thin yet vivid and embarrassingly conspicuous, seemed to be healing.
Yes, healing. It was even thinner, and its color now closer to that of his natural skin color...
The ice around his heart was born of the scary thoughts that made him wake up sweaty and panting at night. It was remembrance, mostly. But why was the healing scar a bad thing? he asked himself. Surely it should be a reassurance...
A tear slid down Harry's cheek. He refused to look the reason in the eye, but it was as clear as his reflection was: the scar, the war, the prophecy, the responsibility, the certainty... It was who he was. As many times as he'd resented the burdens, as he'd wished that he could be like other – normal – people, Harry had the entire package embedded into his identity when he was eleven years old and given a new life. Now that the prophecy was fulfilled, the war ended, and the scar fading, there were very few pieces that this black-haired, green-eyed boy could find of himself. He was empty, and falling apart at the seams.
Now they wanted him back at school. There was even a note congratulating him on being officially of-age. Harry's brow knit... He supposed his birthday might have passed. It had been about a month since he'd woken here, plus maybe a month of that final battle, after the rushed completion of the last school year...
Might as well be July, then. He took a breath, and let it out slowly.
He was still unwilling to face his past, and even more unwilling to face his unguided future, but what else did he have to do? He couldn't very well stay here, on his aunt's goodwill. Especially when she displayed the very feelings he was ignoring in himself: a desire not to remember, not to care, not to think too much. He'd have to get an apartment, a job... he'd have to be a part of society again, if only the Muggle one.
His decision was simple, really. Return to his wizard life, or return to his Muggle one.
A matter of choosing which held more good, or less bad, things for him...
The lesser of two evils (his mind shied from that word).
With his "ultimate" goal now behind him – and it was still so hard to – there was nothing to guide him in this decision.
*******
Draco Malfoy sat behind the desk in the main study in Malfoy Manor, tapping the feathery end of his quill against his lips.
He read over the seventh year list again, wondering if he'd be going back to school. It was logical, he supposed, to finish the final year of education. It would be easier to be apprenticed, or to train for a ministry job... Not that he knew what the hell he wanted to do with his life. The only thing he was certain of was that he would not simply sit and live off his inheritance, despite its limitless proportions.
But school was not necessary, really. Only logical, and a decent way to explore possibilities for the future, as pointless a concept as "future" had become.
Draco ignored the unease in his heart, just as he ignored the cause of his hesitation to attend his final year at Hogwarts; deep down, he dreaded seeing those decimated grounds and halls, and the equally decimated population. An empty, battle-scarred school...
"Draco, darling, there you are!" his mother exclaimed, entering the study dressed in a white silk nightgown. "And at what an hour. Studying, are you?" She asked fondly, her hands going to her slim hips, and her pale, blonde-framed face cocking to one side as she smiled at him.
Despite his less-than-chipper thoughts, Draco smiled softly back. "I guess you could say that, mother. You should be sleeping."
"So should you, dear. It's nearly dawn." Narcissa Malfoy sighed. "I think I'll watch the sunset..." And she wandered off, back the way she'd come, followed by the house elf now on duty to look after her.
Draco had rejected the idea of medical treatment out of hand. His mother was simply dealing with the past in her own way, he knew. There was no reason to put her in St. Mungos, not when she was no harm to anyone. There weren't even any private practitioners he trusted. Even though he couldn't be in the manor all the time, he felt better knowing she was safe at home. Here there was loyal staff and an infusion of generations of familial familiarity (a term he enjoyed musing over).
The quill came away from his mouth, and he twirled it, staring through the black and white pattern on the feather. At least she never asked about Lucious anymore, or the Death Eaters, or the Dark Lord...
Apparently his facial expressions conveyed his feelings even to the mentally unstable (Not insane, a voice vehemently interjected). He disliked remembering the battle, especially his part in it. He had refused to choose sides, but had been at Hogwarts when the attack came. Despite his adamant refusal to go against his family, Draco had ended up at the makeshift infirmary of the Order's side. He consoled his guilt – for Malfoy loyalty was a hard-learned lesson – by telling himself that the lives he'd saved were not going back into battle. He hadn't been helping any side, really...
Familiar anger bubbled up. Damned, ignorant, BLINDLY following Death Eaters! Couldn't they see that their efforts were in vain? And most of them called themselves Slytherins! How intelligent was following a thing that used and abused you? How ambitious was it to fight another's battle? How...
Snap.
Draco glared at the now-broken quill. Calm down, he told himself. Sighing gustily, he dropped the pieces to run a hand through his long blonde hair. The absent gesture was enough to turn his mind to his changed image. He was sure no one would recognize him now, unless it was for his striking resemblance to his mother. Especially with his hair past his shoulders. He allowed himself a small smile of triumph: Barring the silver tone to his ice-blue eyes (lucius's had been grey), he looked nothing like his father. It was a small thing, admittedly, but it was easier to forget the bastard when reminders of him weren't present in the mirror.
Maybe if there was no physical similarities, there would be nothing else... Draco would not become his father. He swallowed, and mentally swore. So much for changing to a less troubling mental topic.
It was all because of this damned letter! Draco glared at the offending object. With decisiveness that had nothing to do with logic, thought, or plan, He squashed the parchment into as small a ball as he could manage, and dropped it into his wastebasket. He took his wand from his desk drawer, and muttered a spell. The letter disappeared.
With a sigh, Draco took out a sheet of blank parchment – and an unbroken quill – and began a letter to the department of employment within the ministry. He detailed what he was looking for in a job, along with his stronger academic points, and his sadly brief list of references and previous job experience.
After finishing the letter, addressing it and stamping it, he called a servant to send it on its way. As an afterthought, he sent a second to see about completing his education by mail or tutor... it wouldn't have the same weight as a certificate of completion from Hogwarts had – nor NEWT scores, but perhaps he could take those independently as well – but it was better than the six years he currently held. OWL scores only went so far.
Now that he was on his path, Draco once again had something to the distract him from the emptiness inside of him. The feeling was born of having lost his family, associates, and social standing. Perhaps, too, born of having had his life complete turned on its head. That would do it, he supposed.
Once he'd settle his affairs, cleaning himself of his father and the Dark business their family name had fallen into (the guilt-causing work at the Hogwart's infirmary had helped greatly, proving that he hadn't been involved in the attack), he'd mainly concerned himself with making his mother comfortable. And even that had become a weak distraction.
Hopefully renewing his education and getting employment of some sort would provide something to create a new self from. Then he wouldn't have to keep hiding from who he used to be...
Or the lack of person he currently was.
_____________________________________________________
Author Note~
I haven't got a beta, FYI, so I apologize for my errors (correcting one's own work can only catch so many, I know). Anyone who's good with editing, please feel free to let me know if you'd like the position (comes with high esteem, I tell you!) on this story.
Also, please keep in mind that this is my first fic (in case you don't like it), and I'm probably going to be slow (in case you do).
Reviews are much appreciated. Especially flames, I might add... Dunno why, by getting yelled at is so exhilarating (. Plus it gives me an excuse to stalk around and complain about stuff. That's fun.
Update: Fixed my freudian slip (sheesh) after banging my head repeatedly on my desk.
Draco's mother is now correctly named Narcissa... (*blush* one of my fave pairings is Narcissa/Lily... sorry!)
And I got a beta offer from one Sailor Grape, so hopefully any future errors are greatly reduced.
Update #2: ARGH. Why do SOME tabs show up when I upload a document, but not others?! I had to go and add a line between paragraphs to make it show up! Why didn't someone tell me this chapter started out with one big CHUNK of sentences! It was supposed to be about ten different paragraphs. It was horrible! And yet all anyone complained about was the damned name mix-up. *mutter*