Warning: slash (male/male relationship) though mild, not reviewed by a beta, and rather dark…the rating is just to be on the safe side
Disclaimer: I do not own them and am making no money off my use of them.
Author's Note: Constructive criticism is more than welcome. Originally I meant this as a one shot but have decided to continue it using this chapter as the prologue… I hope you enjoy!
The stairs were worn by the bare feet and lonely tears of those upon whom the rest of the world had turned its back and ceased to dub worthy of its pity- people who had brought the noose down upon their own necks- those who were innately evil (or at least assumed to be so). And society was not in the wrong; they did not deserve pity… let alone compassion. Prisons were for the dregs of society- misfits and miscreants all of them, but not this place; the worn steps, and moist stone walls, and the silence- the deep bottomless silence that could embrace mortals stealing their sanity and eventually their priceless breaths, were for those who deserved so much more. Eerie blue flames lit the way, and gray emaciated faces stared out from behind the shadows- haunted eyes wide- eyelashes fluttering, and skeletal limbs reaching between bars stronger than magic, and logic, and even love- reaching futilely for something only they could see… salvation maybe? It was a lair of the nightmares of men, and none visited- for who would desire to face the fears of others when most men have enough of their own.
The exception to men's rules strode purposely (though not fearlessly) down the stairs; the low heels of his dragon-skin boots initiated a soft tap whose echoes were then hurled from stone wall to stone wall- competing with the infinite silence until even they were swallowed up, and announcing to any still capable of hearing the noises of the mortal realms that one untainted dared to enter the depths of their hell; it would be deception to state there were many still capable and a greater deception still to say that those who were could bring themselves to care. Blessed with the curse of empathy the man braced broad shoulders- that had once carried the hopes, and dreams, and trust of an entire society against their skin, as wave after wave of hopeless, mindless despair washed over him- tendrils of insanity rising from their depths to curl around his limbs and torso and press their weight against the shields of his mind. But war hardens even the most compassionate of men; he shook off the grasping strands of human weakness, and passed the wraith-like-forms of the dying with the cold eyes of a man well-acquainted with suffering. Heroes are not so golden after all.
Stopping suddenly at a cell that (to one who didn't know what they were looking for) appeared no different than any of the others he had previously passed- the man whispered a single word in a language long forgotten- a language of warm breezes rustling newly shed leaves and caressing salty swells, feeding hungry flames and dancing across soft feathers- one whose power even the speaker felt it was sacrilege to call upon in a modern world so devoid of the principles from which it was birthed. That did not stop him though- for pain had stolen his innocence and left the jaded shadow of a man in place of a noble and slightly naïve child. The child would have cared… the man did not. The lock opened with a soft innocuous "click."
"Still beautiful I see." A blond man was sprawled in a far corner of the cell- shadow masking what was not covered by the tatters of his once fine black robes, and thus preserving his dignity. Yet neither robe nor darkness could disguise the vile scent of drying blood… lots of it. The aurors had not been kind. Long silver threads hid most of his face except for small patches of pale skin that practically glowed in the strange light, and it was true… even dirty, battered, and almost unclothed he was still beautiful. It was the ethereal beauty whose spark flared in many magical creatures… many magical creatures and this man, this Draco Malfoy. For a moment the other man let himself wonder what had compelled him to risk the hostility of the dementors to call upon a man for whom he had only ever felt the most acute of hatred; maybe it was the bitter taste of unfinished business… maybe it was something else. Deciding not to analyze his actions further- he dropped to his knees on the cold stone floor and gently- with a single finger, lifted the chin of the prisoner.
"I thought you might come, or maybe I hoped; it could even have been a dream. Are you a dream? It's hard to tell in this place." Wearily lifting a battered arm (that- judging from the raw bloody skin of the forearm, must have held the dark mark before it had been burned away) he motioned to the silent unforgiving chamber. "You never know what's real and what isn't."
Harry Potter- savior of the wizarding and muggle worlds alike, sworn nemesis of this beautiful boy who had whined, and taunted, and tricked, and ultimately hid behind the power of his name, felt his hatred trickle slowly away as the sad gray eyes of a man- who had made his mistakes and accepted the fact that he would pay for them, met his. Step after step Harry had imagined harsh words – witty barbed replies- a verbal sparing that never failed to end in blows- cleansing blows, the kind that would allow him to return to his comfortable London flat and the crisp cotton sheets of his double bed- wondering how he had ever gotten it into his head that he and a Malfoy would have unfinished business. But there were no such harsh words and those eyes – they wouldn't let him. Their serenely hopeless acceptance stole away his pleasant fantasy that people do not change (not that becoming more amoral and less of a git was necessarily a step up). Harry felt as if- for a moment, those eyes penetrated through the history, the lies, and the violent dislike; they penetrated through all the barriers he had built around himself in an attempt to make sure that there would be something left when the war was over- to make sure that not just a figurehead- a pawn in other men's games, would rise from the blood, and gore, and pain of the battlefield, but a man as well. There was something piercing about that desolate gaze, and Harry felt naked before the gray orbs. Maybe you can hide nothing from a man who knows he is going to die in the morning- for the man himself has nothing left worth hiding.
Acting on a whim Harry leaned forward pressing his forehead against the other man's- even matted with blood the flaxen strands of his hair felt silken where cooling sweat had glued them to feverish skin - a quiet "I'm real." was all that was spoken, and as if on its own accord- Harry's left hand rose from its place on the floor to gently cup Draco's bruised cheek and lift his face until their noses and then their lips softly brushed together. Their first kiss wasn't passionate; it wasn't even sweet… it was a bitter, regretful, silent goodbye; it was an acknowledgement of all that might have (but hadn't) been…and it hurt.
"I'm sorry." Tenderly releasing the smaller man- the words escaped Harry's lips before he had even conceptualized saying them.
"Oh Harry," the blond sighed- returning to his former position and letting his hair conceal the glistening at the corners of his eyes. "That's never enough."
